The Guard of Isildur
by Lily Carmen Black
Summary: Tirith had seen many thing, from the end of an age, to the birth of a new, this lonesome Ranger has travelled the land of Middle-earth for hundreds of years. Once, she had loved a man who could never love her back and it was because of this act that she was banished. Forever doomed to watch the heirs of Elendil from afar, her quiet life was about to take a turn for the worst.
1. Three Rings for the Elven-kings

**Disclaimer:** **I do not own Lord of the Rings, that goes t Tolkien, and Peter Jackson, two men who's genius is far greater than I. I also so not own any information or characters from Born of Hope, that amazing story goes to the 'Actors at Work Productions'. I only own Rhelin, Rigwyn, Seon, Onyveth, Tycyn, Owagwyn, Tháron, Romon, Tinadrieldur, Æsa, Míriel II, and Tirith.**

 **Warning:** **There is blood, fighting and swearing in this chapter.**

* * *

 **Name pronunciation:**

 **Rhelin - Rae - a - lin**

 **Rigwyn - Rig - win**

 **Tycyn - Tie - can**

 **Owagwyn - Oh - wag - in**

 **Seon - Sea - on**

 **Onyveth - On- ii - veth**

* * *

 **Three Rings for the Elven-kings under the sky,**

 **SA 3319**

The Drowning of Númenor, that was what historians would later learn to call it. They ignored the tragic events that took place, only remembering the subtle truth - that Númenor sunk because of one King's foolish actions. Ancient scrolls and texts told the story of how King Ar-Pharazôn dedicated his loyalty to Morgoth's greatest and most powerful servant Sauron. After years of planning, and the building of a vast army, the King, finally decided to cross the forbidding seas of the West.

No one knew what happened that day, but many assumed that the Last King of Númenor drowned in his battle to find the Valinor or in the common tongue, the Undying Lands, a place where Man could never go. However, the greed of Ar-Pharazôn still lingered within his people, and through Sauron, the people of Númenor had become corrupted, turning away from the Valar and Eru and worshipping Morgoth.

But not everyone had embraced the lies that Sauron and King Ar-Pharazôn spread and so, as the Manwë, chief of the Valar, called upon Ilúvatar to destroy the land of Númenórë, nine stolen boats slipped out of the eastern coast, carrying the Faithful away from the dangerous waters and to Middle-earth.

The Faithful only brought the clothes on their back; the seven Palantíri stones; the Sceptre of Annúminas; the Ring of Barahir and Narsil. Where those items power are now, are mostly unknown, but on that fateful day they were either shoved deep into their pockets or strapped to their side, in fear of an attack.

It is on one of these boats where our story begins, with a small family, whose fate had yet to be decided, and through one of the children of Seon, a great warrior would rise from the ashes of their past and determine the fate of Middle-earth.

Rhelin daughter of Seon desperately tried to grip onto her brother - Tycyn - as several humungous waves crashed, bobbed and threw the family of four across the deck. Their clothes scratched at their skin, rubbing it raw and their hair, dark and lifeless clung to their necks like leeches.

Rigwyn, Rhelin's eldest brother, reached out to grab his younger siblings as they rocketed past. He just had enough time to grab Rhelin and Tycyn by the hem of their cloaks and pull them close as a behemothic wave crashed down onto their ship, scattering everything in sight.

'RIGWYN!' screamed Rhelin as she and Tycyn clung to their eldest brother's shoulders. 'WHERE'S OWAGWYN?'

Rigwyn's sea coloured eyes widened in astonishment, and before Rhelin could even breathe, he had ripped himself away from his siblings and vaulted his lanky body into the ruined and very water clogged deck.

'RIGWYN!' Tycyn cried, but the second son of Seon's voice was suppressed by a tremendous crackle of lightning that reached out to the boat like a tree branch before striking the ship.

'The mast,' gasped Rhelin, as her eyes settled on the burning timber that rose above her, threatening to pull the ship down to its watery grave. 'Oh by Eru Ilúvatar, I have to - I must-'

Suddenly another wave crashed against the deck, ripping Tycyn away from his sister.

'RHELIN!' yelled Tycyn, but it was too late.

Rhelin could only watch in horror as the second son of Seon was taken back by the cursed wave, his burly arms trying desperately to cling onto any part of the ship -

Through the chaos, a hand suddenly reached out in front of the young Lord. Tycyn's own latched out, and with one simple tug, the Blacksmith was pulled out of his watery grave by the towering figure of Lord Elendil.

Rhelin closed her eyes, releasing the breath that she had somehow kept, as the Tall One, pushed Tycyn's staggering body further up the ship. Somewhere along the way between Númenor and Middle-earth, the ship had sprung a leak, causing the bow of the boat to rise out of the water and this was where the men, women and children now stood, all huddled together as they tried to stay warm.

'Rhelin!' cried Tycyn as the soaking wet figure of Rigwyn exploded out of the water, half dragging, half carrying Owagwyn by his shoulder. 'Come here!'

The daughter of Seon nervously glanced to Elendil, whose arm was outstretched toward her. But Rhelin had other ideas.

Before her conscience could break free from the terror that clouded her mind, Rhelin reached behind her back to where her long knives were strapped to her lower back. The knives had once belonged to her mother, given to her by a passing Elf long forgotten. They were implements of incredible power, so great, that Sauron the Deceiver had tried to snatch them away.

Before anyone could shout, Rhelin ripped them free from their scabbards and cut her dress above the knee. If the situation hadn't been desperate, Rhelin's brothers would have screamed at her for the indecency, unfortunately for the sons of Seon, their voices had all but disappeared; they could only watch in horror as their baby sister wrapped the shredded fabric around her soaking hair. The woman glanced back up to the burning mast, her plan swimming around in her head before she kicked off her shoes and leapt onto the slippery mast, her knives slicing through the wood like butter.

Rhelin's grunted as her feet slipped, causing her arms to cry out in pain but the woman had climbed enough trees back in Númenor to know that if she stopped, her mussels would fail her. So, as quickly as she dared, Rhelin climbed the timber, stealing glances every so often to her brother's fearful faces as Elendil watched on with an expression Rhelin couldn't quite place - was it fear, or determination.

Whatever it was, it fuelled Rhelin's determination that by the time the woman managed to swing herself up into the topmost yard, she knew what she had to do. But now, the fire was larger and very ferocious, causing Rhelin to pause, her eyes unnaturally large.

Fear coursed through her veins like a bad cold; her arms and legs froze like an iceberg, and the little voice in the back of her head was screaming at her to run.

Fire, - fire had killed her father.

'RHELIN, YOU NEED TO BREAK THE MAST!'

It was Owagwyn. Rhelin glanced down. Through the rigging, musky smoke and torrential rain, she could just see his waving hands, encouraging her to move on.

Out of all the children of Seon and Onyveth, their two youngest looked most like their mother. Both had the red-brown hair that once adorned their mother's face and the dapple grey eyes that at one point could have lit up a room.

Eyes once full of curiosity and love - now replaced with fear and that horrible hollow feeling that you only got when you saw your home destroyed.

'YOU CAN DO IT RHELIN!' Elendil roared, his grey eyes fixed on the woman's terrified face. Rhelin took a breath; gripped her knives and charged head first into the flames. Several women screamed out, their breath catching in their throats as Rhelin cried out in pain. Rhelin's knees buckled as she cradled her hand. It was red and swollen like a volcano, the burn ripping through her rough skin like water.

A string of curse words left her lips that if her father had been alive, he would have surely punished her for her language. But her father was dead, - dead because of a fire they could not stop, and as Rhelin stared at the flickering flamed above she couldn't help but wonder how much longer she could carry on.

Rigwyn barely had time to pull Lord Elendil out of the way as one of Rhelin's long knives fell from the sky, landing right where the Lord had once stood. With a heavy heart, Rhelin bit down on her pain; wrapped both hands around the deadly knife and with one tremendous thwack, rammed her blade against the wood, right above the burning flame.

The knife shuddered, and Rhelin gritted her teeth as the vibrations travelled throughout her whole body, ripping at her burn. With a tug, the blade was free and then - THWACK - the blade was buried in the mast again.

For several, long, agonising minutes, Rhelin kicked, hit, pushed and slashed at the mast, and it was only when the boat suddenly lurched to the right, did the woman realise that the mast had snapped into. Rhelin was thrown the left, her knife ripping out of her grip.

'LIN!' screamed Rigwyn and he dived forward as his sister lost her grip, the knife following behind her. The woman screamed as she fell towards the deck, her red hair reminding the children of Seon all too well of the dangerous flames that had destroyed their home.

The burning mast fell too, narrowly missing Rhelin's face by several inches before it was smothered by a rolling wave that crashed against the ship. Her mind spun, turning her stomach inside out; her hair and face were sweaty and her heart - although beating ferociously - had disappeared somewhere between her uterus and her feet. Tycyn jumped out of the way as the second knife, now blunt and bent, spun through the air before embedding itself into the desk, right where his feet had once been.

It was Lord Elendil who caught her. Somewhere between screaming and falling, Rhelin realised that she was safely tucked in the arms of the Tall One. Rigwyn was the first to reach her, his arms wrapping around her shoulders as she was placed on the deck, shaking, burnt and very wet.

'That was crazy!' her brother whispered as he pressed his forehead to her own. 'Crazy! Reckless and downright mad! Promise me you won't scare me like that again,'

Rhelin grinned.

'How could I do that Rig?' she asked as she pushed a strand of his wet hair away from his face and behind his ear. 'You're more reckless than I am.'

Rigwyn chuckled before burying his little sister into his chest as Owagwyn and Tycyn gathered round their adventurous sister.

'Look!' a small child suddenly cried, causing the four to pull away from their embrace. 'Mama! Look! I see land!'

Sure enough, through the dense fog and thundering rain, the faint trace of land glinted merrily at the Númenóreans. Elendil released a great sigh of relief, and as the son of Amandil glanced towards the rocky ground, he whispered,

'Out of the Great Sea to Middle-earth, I am come. In this place will I abide, and my heirs, unto the ending of the world.'

Rhelin frowned, she knew Quenya, a language far more beautiful than the tongue of Númenor, however, that didn't mean she knew what the Lord meant. Whatever the case, Rhelin was glad to finally be safe, to away from the cursed hand of Sauron and more importantly, Númenor.

If only she'd known, that in a few short years, Sauron would return, One Ring in hand, and start a bloodthirsty war that would be fought in the shadows for another age. A war so deadly that it would only be completed when Rhelin was old, weary and far, far too adventurous to stay put.

* * *

 **TA 2933**

Two solum figures and a lone horse slowly danced over the grasslands of Harador, the southern region of Gondor. If caught, the two would most likely be killed, but as the two woman hurried between the decaying bodies of Men and Orcs, they had a more pressing matter at hand.

 _'Is he here?'_ asked the Elf, her hand tense as she touched the sword of her father. Westron was a harsh language, compared to the peaceful tranquillity of Sindarin, the Elf found it rather difficult to wrap her tongue around the grunting and spitting that the Dúnedain uttered.

 _'Yes,'_ whispered the Ranger, her dapple eyes as sharp as Gwaihir the Windlord, Lord of all the Great Eagles. _'I can hear him. Can you, Arwen?'_

 _'Absolutely,'_ the Elf, who was more commonly known as Lady Arwen, whispered. _'He is close, but…but I'm afraid Tirith, we may be too late,'_

Tirith sighed, her shoulders hunched. She had suffered, undergone many things that a human should not have seen and as the Elf nervously stole glances at her friend, Tirith looked positively ancient. Her red-brown hair that was hidden by the fold of her cloak suddenly looked grey and thinner; her skin was wrinkled like the bark of a tree and her eyes, now the colour of rain no longer held the fire that once glinted.

 _'I had a feeling we might be,_ ' admitted Tirith as she straightened, a small frown etched on her face. _'However, we must return him to his family.'_

 _'He is not alone,'_ breathed Arwen as she kicked the body of an orc out of her path. _'My brothers are with him,'_

 _'Hmm, I suspected as much,'_ mumbled Tirith, one hand on the horse's mane. _'Elladan and Elrohir. Just what I needed.'_

 _'They're not that bad,'_ grimaced Arwen as she tucked a strand of her dark hair behind her sculpted ear. Tirith snorted.

 _'The last time we met they tried to decapitate me!'_

 _'I promise that they will not harm you,'_ said Arwen and then, the Elf smiled. _'Are you afraid, old friend?'_

 _'My fears have already happened,'_ replied Tirith, her grip on her blades tightening. _'I was banished by Isildur. That was my greatest fear, and unfortunately for his descendant, that banishment still takes place to this day.'_

Tirith sighed, pausing for a second to glance towards the two Elven figures who sat beside the figure of a dying man as they tried to bind his wounds.

 _'Come on Arwen,'_ whispered Tirith as she sheathed her blades, the sound drawing the attention of the sons of Elrond. _'Let's get this over with,'_

As the two approached, their long cloaks hiding their faces, Elladan and Elrohir rose, and for the first time in a long time, Tirith felt sorry for the two twins.

 _'My Lords,'_ declared Tirith, her tongue purposely pronouncing her words as she swooped into a small bow. However, Arwen didn't follow pursuit; they were her brothers after all. To Tirith, Sindarin wasn't a straightforward language, however, she found Quenya far simpler and more beautiful a language to speak and to understand.

 _'Why are you here Tirith,'_ hissed Elladan as he stepped in front of his dying friend, a hand resting on his blade. _'He will live,'_

 _'That is where you are wrong Elladan son of Elrond,'_ snapped Tirith, her lips tightening in a thin line _. 'He will die. I have seen it,'_

 _'And who told you that you could look beyond the unknown?'_ asked Elrohir, as he joined his brother. Tirith raised an eyebrow and removed her hands from her blades. There unscripted in the ancient language of Adûnaic, the Language of the West, the words _"Seer"_ and _"Guard"_ adorned her wrists.

 _'You know who I am sons of Elrond; I helped birth you when you were nothing but babes. Do not question what I can and cannot do,'_

Elladan's stone coloured eyes narrowed, and the Elf was about to step forward and challenge the woman when someone stopped him.

 _'No,'_ the gasping voice of the dying man whispered, Sindarin barely brushing passed his lips. _'Let them take me. Let them take me back to my wife and son. Do not deny me the privilege that my ancestors had before me,'_

Elladan and Elrohir sighed and glanced nervously at each other before parting; revealing the disfigured body of the dying man. His right eye was bloody and mutated, the remnants of an orcish arrowhead embedded in his brain, the poison slowly killing him; his right pointer finger was missing, the signet ring of his father forever gone - but the Ring of Barahir was somehow forever clutched in his grip. What dangers had that ring seen? Too many for Tirith to count by hand. How many deaths had it carried through the centuries?

Far too many.

'My, my,' whispered Tirith in the language of men, as she collapsed to her knees, beside the man's head, 'what a right mess you've managed to get yourself into, Steadfast King,'

The man chuckled.

'I suspect you've seen worse, Guard,'

'Yes,' admitted Tirith, 'but that does not mean it is any less painful to see my King die,'

'I am no King,' admitted the man. Tirith snorted.

'You may not sit on the Throne of Gondor, but that does not mean that in the eyes of your people - of the Dúnedain - you are our King. Now, where do you want me to take you?'

'To the edge of Tawar-in-Drúedain,' whispered the man. Tirith nodded and rose to face the three Elves.

 _'Could one of you please get him up onto Húro?'_

It was Elrohir who stepped forward. Carefully, the son of Elrond picked up the dying man and gently placed him on the back of the horse, but not before the Elf grabbed the Ranger's arm his nails biting into her skin.

 _'If his body does not return to his wife and child then for Eru's sake, I will end you,'_

Tirith smiled and ripped her arm away from the Elf's grip.

 _'I wouldn't expect anything else less Lord Elrohir,'_ said Tirith. Before Elrohir could even move, the Ranger had grabbed the reigns of the horse and had begun to walk in the direction of The Drúadan Forest.

 _'Oh, and Arwen,'_ cried the woman, causing the Elf to glance up. _'Go back home. I'll see you soon enough,'_

 _'But-'_ the Elf cried, but it was too late, Tirith had already nudged the horse into a run.

As the woman ran beside the dying man she wondered how his people would take to seeing her again, after all, it had been nearly three years since his father had died, and like their Chieftain, she too had carried Arador back to them.

And so, as Tirith and Húro carefully manoeuvred their way over the lush hills and grasslands towards the Drúadan Forest and into the unknown, she wondered how much longer the heir of Isildur could hold on.

* * *

 **TA 3018**

Isengard wasn't exactly unfamiliar territory for Tirith. However, that didn't mean she felt safe. For several years, the guard of Isildur had watched Saruman the White through the tiniest seeing stone, or Palantíri, that the Tall One had taken from Númenor. It had been a gift, a present, bestowed upon on her by King Elendil for services in battle and for the protection of his eldest son's life, a life that she utterly failed to save in the end.

Her plan was insane, rather daring. She was going to spy on Saruman himself. Nobody had managed to accomplish the enormous task of following the White Wizard, Tirith had just been the first to put her crazy plan into action. Apparently, Isengard wasn't supposed to be climbed. Unfortunately, Tirith only discovered that when she was halfway up the bloody thing.

Her hands shook, reminding Tirith of an old man holding a tankard, spilling the content of his drink on his shirt, and the heart that had kept her going for so long beat a little too fast. It pounded in her chest, ringing as loud as a bell in her ears.

Her stomach wasn't helping either. Somewhere between the first level and the ground, it had started doing somersaults, causing the woman's neck to feel hot and her eyes to dilate. Fear was man's worst enemy, and as Tirith clung to a ridge lodged in the stone tower, the Ranger was absolutely terrified.

'Come on, Tirith,' Tirith whispered to herself, as she glanced up at the sky. 'You're almost there, - almost there,'

With a deep breath, Tirith pushed her aching legs and wrapped her half-gloved fingers around a small ledge. Tirith let loose a little scream as she dropped several feet. Her hands wildly lashed out, grabbing nothing but air.

A bright blue light, as dark and colourful as the sapphires that were once embedded in the crown of King Ar-Pharazôn, exploded from Tirith's neck. A rope of blue light latched onto the windowsill as if it were an extension of the Ranger's upper hand. For several long seconds, the Ranger just hung, her limbs too sore to be comfortable, her heart beating way too vigorously for Tirith not to notice.

Eventually, once her heart had slowed, the Ranger stretched her sore fingers; blew a strand of her long hair out of her face and glanced up to survey the damage.

'If I'm going to make it into Saruman's throne room, I've got to make sure that I get the jump right,' whispered Tirith, her eyes narrowed. Making sure that her feet were safely embedded in a large crack, the Ranger breathed a deep sigh, steadying her breath, and before she could convince herself otherwise, jumped.

Saruman's throne room wasn't something to be desired. It was dark, gloomy and frightfully cold, that as Tirith snuck into the room, her back to an arched wall, she never expected the sight that greeted her. Gandalf the Grey stood, his feet planted in front of a pair of closed doors, his staff extended as he pointed it at Saruman.

Olórin of the Maiar, stood poised, his face just as unreadable when Tirith had first met him nearly two thousand and eighteen years ago. That man had grown, not just in strength and character, but through wisdom and knowledge, however, that didn't mean he was as determined and stubborn as a newborn calf.

'Tell me, friend…' gasped Gandalf, his lip curling into a snarl. 'When did Saruman the Wise abandon reason for madness?'

Tirith's eyes widened as Saruman lifted his staff and the Grey Wizard rose, his feet lifting off the ground like a bird in flight before throwing him against the wall as if were a bag of flour. Tirith's knives slashed as she lurched towards Saruman, her teeth bared, but Curunír was ready.

The White Wizard suddenly turned as the Ranger appeared out of the shadows and before Tirith could enact her Ring, the walls suddenly sprung to life. The Ranger screamed as the stone pushed her forward, knocking her swollen body to the ground. Pain ricocheted throughout her chest; her ribs burned like iron.

The Istari turned towards a groaning Gandalf, and before Tirith could cry out, he had violently moved his staff across his face. Gandalf suddenly rose again, as he was a rag doll before being flung against the opposite wall. And then, like the strange Voodoo Dolls that Tirith had seen being made by a clan of Witches, the Grey Wizard was thrown up into the air.

Saruman barely had time to advance on Gandalf before Tirith lunged at him. This time, her blades met skin, and as the ruby red liquid beaded down the knife, Saruman stumbled. The Ranger advanced, both swords flashing darkly in the light of the cold room. But Saruman had the upper hand.

The White Wizard threw his staff up, knocking the Ranger to the floor. Tirith's world spun as the butt of a staff was suddenly embedded across her throat. The Ranger lashed out, her fists hitting nothing but air - and then the staff was off her.

Somewhere, in the confusion, Gandalf had managed to drop to the ground and with a wordless spell had thrown Saruman onto his back. Tirith's vision darkened as each wizard, the White and the Grey flung wordless spells their bodies going one way and then the other. Blood curdled on the floor beneath each man, forever smeared into their robes and as Tirith tried to rise, Saruman once again, raised his staff.

Gandalf cried out in pain as Curunír pointed his staff at him and spun him around and around. The sight was enough for Tirith to retch.

And then Saruman was across the room, and into his private study. Tirith's eyes widened, and she stumbled to her feet as Saruman rose and threw out his hand. Olórin's staff was ripped from his grasp. Tirith cried out as the ancient wood came flying towards her.

Tirith rolled, her bones and mussels crying out in protest as the staff flew over her head and into the hand of Saruman. The White Wizard advanced on Gandalf; both staffs clasped in his gnarled hands. With a tremendous effort, the Wizard spun both staffs around and around, causing Gandalf to spin in circles.

'I gave you the chance of aiding me willingly,' snarled Saruman, momentarily forgetting the Ranger, as Tirith rose, her feet silently gliding over the stone. 'But you...have elected...the way of pain!'

With that, Curunír lifted both staffs, sending Olórin high up into the roof of Isengard, his body still circling unnaturally. It was at that moment that Tirith took her chance. The Ranger leapt high, jumping greater than any man, before landing on the tall frame of Saruman. The White Wizard thrashed, his long fingers wrapping around her red-brown hair, trying to pull her off him. But Tirith held fast; her legs forever locked around Curunír's waist.

Tirith screamed, as her back crashed onto the stone ground and as the Wizard struck her across the face with his staff, she heard the horrible crunching sound of her bones breaking.

'Curunír,' gasped the Ranger and she stared up into the wizard's dark eyes. 'Why? Why are you doing this?'

'Why do you think?' hissed Saruman, his lip curling as he spoke, his gaze glaring down on the Ranger. Tirith's eyes widened in realisation, and her breath hitched.

'Sauron,' she whispered, confirming her fears. But Saruman ignored her, and he raised his staff, before smashing his staff onto her right hand.

Tirith screamed and her grip on her blade faltering as the bones shattered.

But before Saruman could swap to her other hand, Tirith lunged again, smacking her clenched fist right into his jaw. The wizard collapsed, his White Robes billowing behind him. Quickly before the wizard could rise, Tirith ran towards the closed doors.

With her right hand now clutched to her chest, the Ranger pulled on the door, her fingers slipping under the crack in the doorframe. However, the wood didn't budge. With a roar, Tirith kicked the door. Pain exploded around her already exhausted foot, and the woman let loose a string of curse words.

'So,' whispered Saruman as he rose causing Tirith to whirl around in fright, her dark eyes wide. 'This is all Númenor can offer?'

He laughed.

'What a waste!'

And then Tirith did something reckless. She lunged toward the White Wizard. The woman dove in front of Saruman, gliding under the wizard's legs, like an autumn leave being whisked away in a stream, before she snatched her blades from the floor. The Ranger stumbled, her heart pounding like a drum, and before Saruman could even whirl around to catch her, Tirith had hopped onto the windowsill and glanced down.

The Wizard paused, as he watched her face pale as her gaze fixed on the ground below her. Her head spun, her breath quickened, and her eyes dilated. It was a long way down. And then, with a deep breath, the woman steadied her legs and with a tremendous push, threw herself out of the window.

She fell, down, hair whipping her face.

The smell of orc clouded her nostrils, but Tirith closed her eyes, her head spinning far more violently than she expected. The Last Ring of Man stayed dull and quiet and so as the Immortal Ranger fell to her death and into the unknown, she wondered how angry Elrond would be when he discovered that she was dead.


	2. Seven for the Dwarf-lords

**Disclaimer:**

 **I do not own Lord of the Rings, that goes t Tolkien, and Peter Jackson, two men who's genius is far greater than I. I also so not own any information or characters from Born of Hope, that amazing story goes to the 'Actors at Work Productions'.**

 **I only own Rhelin, Rigwyn, Seon, Onyveth, Tycyn, Owagwyn, Tháron, Romon, Tinadrieldur, Æsa, Míriel II, and Tirith.**

 **Warning: There is blood, fighting, death, torture, and swearing in this chapter.**

* * *

 **Name pronunciation:**

 **Rhelin - Rae - a - lin**

 **Rigwyn - Rig - win**

 **Tháron - Thaa - ron**

 **Romon - Roe - mon**

 **Seon - Sea - on**

 **Maia — Miaa**

 **Halbaron - Hall- bar - on**

 **Tinadrieldur — Tina - dur - elder**

* * *

 **Seven for the Dwarf-lords in their halls of stone**

 **SA 3319**

The first time Rhelin met an Elf, she thought her mind was playing tricks on her. Never before had she seen a creature more majestic than the graceful being who had stopped outside her home, his gaze never leaving the clumsy little girl as she tried to attack a willow tree with a pair of daggers. She had been twelve, almost thirteen, when the burnt orange-red haired Elf had suddenly appeared by her side and asked where he could find Lord Seon.

 _'Why do you want to know?'_ Rhelin had asked, her tongue lulling into the language of the elves, in Quenya, a language forever banned by Ar-Gimilzôr.

Her gaze staring defiantly up into the green eyes that were rimmed with Elf had raised an eyebrow and folded his arms, a movement so delicate, that Rhelin would have missed it if she herself was the typical height of girl. Unlike the children the Elf had met across Middle-Earth, she, this girl, was by far the tallest twelve-year-old he had seen - she came up to his waist, a feat that only some teens could accomplish.

'For one thing,' the Elf had said, surprising Rhelin as his lips softly spoke in the language of the West. 'He has asked me to see him,'

'And the second?' Rhelin has asked, her eyes narrowed as dropped her weapons. The Elf had just smiled and crouched down so that he was the same height as her.

'Now,' the Elf had said as he picked up her weapons and pressed them into her palms, 'that is my business,'

The Elf had held out his hand.

'My name is Tháron son of Romon,' Rhelin glanced at the hand unsure what to do with it. 'What's your name?'

Slowly, the girl reached out and gently clasped his arm, like she had seen her eldest brother do. Tháron's hand was surprisingly strong, that as Rhelin nervously clutched the Elf's hand, she was grateful that her narrowed eyes covered her fear.

'My name is Rhelin,' whispered the girl as she released Tháron's hand as quickly as she had grasped it, 'daughter of Seon. If it's my father you want, he'll be in the hall. I'll take you to him,'

The Elf smiled a great smile.

'Thank you little Rhelin,'

Rhelin frowned slightly but nodded. With a flick of her feet, the girl had marched straight towards the grand hall, dodging in and out of several passing women that if it weren't for Tháron's great height, he would have surely missed her.

The Great Hall of Ondostó wasn't a place many significant figures ventured to. Situated in the north of Númenor in the Provence of Forostar, many grand figures were often put off by the three hundred north-pointing mile caps with its barren stony plains to chilly, windswept highlands and ultimately towering sea-cliffs.

The only settlement was Ondostó itself, and even then, few humans lingered in its icy grasp. Those who did were often pinpointed as cold, with an icy stare that could stop a giant in its tracks. Ondostó, although provided defence against the sheer winter, wasn't a settlement for defence, the wind, rain and snowy mountain range did that.

The only other building that could be seen from the tallest tower in Ondostó was the Tower which was situated on Sorontil. The Tower itself was built by the fifth King of Númenor, King Tar-Meneldur, and he had excavated the high building so that he - and any interested astronomer - could observe the stars on the northern cape of the island. However, although many scientists visited during the summer months, the winter days were often left with no sign of life, let alone trade, but somehow the people of Ondostó plundered on, eating and smoking while the snow-battered their doors.

Thankfully it was summer, and as Rhelin led Tháron through the city, she never knew that this would be the first and last time she would see him. According to Rigwyn, Tháron had slipped away under cover of darkness, a pair of vicious looking daggers strapped to his back and a grim expression on his proud face. Whatever their father had told him, it was not good. Now, one hundred and seventeen years later, Rhelin was about to meet elves again.

As the woman stepped off the boat, her brothers surrounding her like three walls of stone, she was surprised to find an Elf with burnt orange-red hair standing beside two elves, one dark haired, the other fair. They stood, just as Tháron had done, with their hands clasped behind their backs, their faces unnaturally still as if someone had painted their portraits in ethical beauty.

The fair-haired Elf was a woman, her golden hair hanging softly around her shoulders like a warm blanket; highlighting her pointed ears and kind smile that seemed to radiate off her and surround the children of Númenor in a warm hug.

The Elf who stood beside her was tall, taller than Elendil with a graceful mane of dark hair that framed his face like the mountains of Ondostó. A long pointed spear sat behind his back in his folded hands and across his brow, lighting up his dark blue eyes like the clear sky, a silver band lay.

Finally, the third and final Elf with burnt-orange hair looked slightly older than his fellow elves but no less wise; his red hair had a strand of white glinting through the roots, and his robes were dark purple.

It was Elendil who stepped forward, his gaze stern.

'We are sorry for the intrusion,' the Lord said as he bowed to the three elves, his long hair falling in front of his face, 'but I am afraid our home has just been destroyed and-'

'Do not fear Lord Elendil,' the fair-haired Elf whispered, her lips breaking into a kind smile, 'we know why you are here,'

'Come, with us,' the dark-haired Elf said, his eyes as peaceful and kind as the dying summer sun.

The Faithful froze, unsure whether to trust the three elves, after all, if there was one thing the Númenóreans had learnt in their few weeks of absolute chaos was not to trust those who seemed kind. That led to hurt, to death and murder.

'How can we trust you?' asked Rigwyn, his dark eyes although blue as the softest sea, was dark and as violent as a storm. The golden-haired Elf smiled again as her crystal blue eyes turned to face the eldest son of Rigwyn.

'Rigwyn, son of Seon, I understand your struggle, but unlike Sauron, you can believe in us, we will not harm you,'

'That's what Sauron said,' snapped Rhelin as her dark eyes fixed on the Elf, 'and then he destroyed us,'

The woman turned and for the first time, set her eyes on Rhelin. Rhelin's eyes widened as a wave of incredible power burned through her, but it wasn't like Sauron's power. Sauron's magic was cruel, dark and never merciless, however, this Elf, this Enchantress held the power of the Ocean and Sea at her will and then suddenly, Rhelin's eyes widened. It was she, this Mistress of Magic, who had calmed the Storm; it had been she who saved them, and then Rhelin's gaze turned to the two dark-haired elves. Like the female Elf, they too had immense power that seemed to radiate off their left ring hands, like diamonds sparkling in the sky.

'We are not here to harm you, child,' the female Elf said.

'Who are you?' gasped Rigwyn, the Last Ring of Man glinting merrily on his finger. The female Elf smiled, her eyes fixing on each of the Númenórean's faces before she returned to Rhelin.

'My name is Galadriel,' the Elf said, smiling sweetly as she raised her left hand to where a ring lay.

'I am Círdan,' the red-haired Elf said, his eyebrows raised as if it amused him to find humans who did not know them.

'You may call me Gil-galad,' the last Elf said, as he raised his hand to tuck a strand of hair behind his ear.

Elendil was the first to bow, followed by the remainder of his people, their eyes wide and lips open in silent awe.

'Welcome,' whispered Galadriel as the Faithful rose. 'To Middle-earth,'

That was the first time Tirith met the Bearers of the Three Elven Rings, and although it wouldn't be her last, the Númenórean had a feeling that the three would be just important in her life as she was to them. After all, who didn't want the owners of Narya, Vilya and Nenya on their side when war was afoot?

* * *

 **TA 2933**

Once, the Dúnedain were friendly, caring people, who would have invited Tirith around for dinner nearly every week, but when the line of King's fell, they rejected her, just as they had rejected themselves into the darkness of the forest. Even though several centuries had passed since Eärnur, the Last King of Gondor, had fallen and although the Dúnedain were few, they were possibly even more aggressive and angry towards the guard of Isildur.

Darkness had fallen by the time Tirith managed to guide her horse to the edge of the Drúadan Forest, and the Chieftain of the Dúnedain's breathing was weak, and his bloodstained Húro's coat a horrible red colour.

'What do I do now?' asked Tirith as she turned to face the dying heir, her lips parted. Arathorn, son of Arador, gave the Immortal Ranger a weak smile before he glanced towards a small cluster of trees.

'Halbarad and Maia son and daughter of Halbaron,' whispered the Chieftain, his lips as blue as the sea, 'come here,'

There was a light rustle, the snapping of tree branches and a second later, two gangly figures, similar in age, dropped down in front of the two Rangers. The seventeen-year-old boy was dark-haired, grey-eyed and had the natural characteristics of the Dúnedain. A dagger was strapped to his side and his clothes, although dark and caked in mud, hung off him in a sort of kingly manner.

The girl, on the other hand, was small, fair-haired and had the bluest eyes Tirith had ever seen. She was surprised to see the young woman of fifteen dressed in the clothes of a Ranger. A rugged scarf hung loosely over her nose; mouth and jaw, hiding her womanly wilds from any passing traveller, however, her landing was not as graceful as her brother, and her cloak had fluttered open, revealing her feminine curves and long legs.

'Arathorn!' Halbarad suddenly cried, his eyes wide and in an instant, he was beside his Lord's side, his grey eyes looking at his dying Chieftain. There was a flash of silver and Tirith's legs suddenly collapsed underneath her as an invisible force suddenly pulled her to the ground. The Ranger groaned and rolled her eyes as Maia clenched her fingers, causing the hidden pieces of rope that tied around her legs to tighten.

'Get away from him,' the girl hissed, her lips curling into a snarl and Maia flexed her hands, causing the rope to squeeze again, but this time drawing blood.

'Maia,' whispered the Ranger as he half carried, half dragged Arathorn off Húro and onto the ground below. 'Stop that. Get Lady Gilraen,'

Maia didn't need to be told twice, as soon as her blue eyes had fixed on her Lord's bleeding form, her fingers had slackened, allowing Tirith to move, however, the guard of Isildur didn't dare stand up. Just because this fifteen-year-old girl had lowered her guard, did not mean that she could be any less deadly than a fully trained Ranger.

'Go on,' whispered Tirith, her eyebrows raised. 'I can't exactly kill your brother,'

'What?' asked Maia, her eyebrows furrowed. Tirith shrugged as Halbarad reached up to Húro's side and snatched a small lantern from his side. With a scrape of two flint pebbles, a spark admitted from the dirty glass, casting a warm glow over Arathorn and the two Rangers.

'Whether you like it or not, you are my Kin,' answered Tirith, 'I took an oath. An oath which stated I would never harm a child of Elros,'

Maia's brows furrowed, obviously confused at the woman's words. Instead, she turned to her brother; her lips parted in a silent question.

'Go,' Halbarad hissed, but his sister stood still, her eyes wide. 'Maia! Maia! Oh for Eru's sake Maia run! Get Lady Gilraen and Master Aragorn! NOW!'

Whether it was the power in her brother's voice or the determination to help her Chieftain, Tirith would never know, but one moment, the blonde haired girl was standing, grief-stricken and the next, she had turned, her legs pumping as she ran towards the dark cluster of trees. She quickly disappearing from the two Rangers' sight.

Tirith turned away from the Drúadan Forest and towards Halbarad and the dying Arathorn.

'Gilraen,' the Chieftain whispered, his eyes rolling back into his head as the pain consumed him.

'Can't you help him?' gasped the young Ranger as he ripped the corner of his shirt into strips. Tirith shook her head and glanced down at the grassy earth.

'I wish I could,' she said, 'but I can't touch him, I'm afraid Isildur managed to get a witch to cast a spell on me.'

'What?' gasped Halbarad, his brows furrowed as he covered Arathorn's missing eye with a piece of cloth, 'that's not in the legends,'

Tirith snorted.

'Of course, it isn't. I mean would you ever admit that you turned your head guard into a burning flame just because she fell in love with your brother? One touch, that's all it takes, and my entire body will burn like the sun,'

Halbarad would have questioned the woman further if it wasn't for the sound of quick feet and loud shouting. Seconds later, Maia and a woman burst out of the forest, their faces pale and their breath ragged.

'Has he spoken?' the woman asked as she approached the dying man, her voice as hoarse and tired a Tirith felt. Lady Gilraen was just as beautiful when Tirith had first met her. The two had met each other by accident when the twenty-six-year-old woman was barely a teenager, a young fifteen-year-old girl who, through many long hours of begging, had been taught everything that Tirith knew.

The woman's blonde hair was now longer, tucked into her head in a large bun that was pinned to the base of her neck, revealing her lovely blue eyes and freckle covered face. Yes, Gilraen was a beauty amount woman, but just like Arathorn, her days were numbered. Strung across the woman's hip was a small toddler with a mass of black hair that fell gently across his face, covering his eyes.

Before the boy could even move, his mother had placed him on the ground next to his father before she too collapsed beside his head, her hands gently grazing over his temple.

'Only your name, my Lady,' admitted Halbarad as he rose, from Aragorn's side, his gaze never leaving the little boy. Arathorn's eyes narrowed as if he didn't quite believe that it was his wife who sat in front of him.

'Gilraen?' he whispered as he tried to grasp for air, his hand clutching to hers as if she were the last thing that he'd ever see.

'I'm here,' Gilraen soothed as tears trickled down her face. 'I'm here!'

Arathorn smiled weakly, as if still not believing that she sat in front of him. Slowly the Lord of the Dúnedain raised his hand and gently touched his wife's cheek.

'Here is my joy,' he whispered his breath curdling. Slowly, the son of Arador removed his hand from his wife's cheek and pressed his hand to the Ring of Barahir. The green; golden and silver ring glinted merrily in the darkness, that unless you knew the story behind the ring, and who it belonged to, you would have no idea that the jewels embedded in the two serpents eyes were crafted in Valinor and were handed down to the children of the House of Finarfin.

'And there is our hope,' whispered the Ranger as his son stepped forward looking very puzzled and incredibly sad.

'Aragorn,' Arathorn breathed, a small smile etched onto his face as he glanced one last time at his son. 'Chieftain of the Dúnedain!'

With that, the fifteenth Chieftain of the Dúnedain pressed the ring into his son's hand; shared one last glance to his wife and with a shuddering breath, his soul returned to Eru. For several seconds, Gilraen stared at her husband's still face. Her eyes were wide; her breath still, and then, just like her ancestors before her, began to cry.

'No,' whispered the woman as she clutched her husband's hair, her lips trailing across his brow. 'No,'

No one noticed the Ranger rising to her feet, her face pale. Eventually, after several seconds, the Ranger handed Húro's reigns to Maia and gave the girl a curt nod.

'Take them to Riverhaven,' she whispered as she threw her hood over her head, her lips pulled tight across her face.

Through the tears and short gasps that emitted from Maia's lips, the young Ranger managed to nod before closing her eyes. By the time she reopened them again, Tirith was gone, and in the distance, a lone Ranger walked solemnly away, a hand at their hip to wear a pair of long knives lay.

Tirith had seen many Kings die. From King Elendil to Lord Arathorn, she had served them all because if there was one thing that Isildur could never stop, was his father's wishes. For over three thousand years, Tirith had honoured King Elendil's wishes by watching his sons and descendants and even if she had fallen in love with one of those children, she still had a duty to uphold. Even if she could never touch an heir of Isildur, that didn't mean was not going to damn well help them.

* * *

 **TA 3018**

Tirith was accustomed to pain, in fact over the several centuries that she had wondered Middle-earth, she and pain had become well acquainted, but this time, as the immortal Ranger awoke from her groggy state, her vision rocky and spun, she couldn't help but feel as if something was wrong. Of course, her intuition was right - it always was. Something was wrong.

Firstly, her arms were retched above her head; clasped to an unnaturally jagged earth wall, as if someone had dug out a hole with their bare hands. Her hands hurt, or rather her left hand did, by the Valour did it hurt. Blood and pus oozed around her narrow wrists, caking the rusty clamps in an incredible mess of blackened red and dribbling yellow. Her left hand, on the other hand, was brutally twisted, the bone jutting out like horrible fishbones as if someone had purposely gutted it, and she couldn't feel it.

No pain meant no feeling; either Tirith was in so much pain that her body had completely collapsed, shutting her nervous system down to protect her. Or she was in shock. Tirith dearly hoped that it was the latter. Her jaw hurt too, but thankfully not as bad as the rest of her body, however, that didn't mean that the Ranger knew it was going to take several long, agonising weeks and numerous bottles of Elrond's disgusting remedies to heal her. That was if she ever got out.

Secondly, the comforting weight that usually hung around Tirith's neck was gone. For several centuries, the immortal Ranger had grown used to the Last Ring of Man's presence and the burden she carried just to hold it in her grasp. On good days, the Last Ring of Man, felt as heavy as a small stone that occasionally bounced across her breast and on those days, Tirith would often forget that she was wearing a Ring which had once defeated a Nazgûl. On the bad days, the sapphire stone was incredibly dark as if it were pulling her soul to the centre of the earth; dragging her to Arda's core to things that were older than the elves and more deadly than the gods.

To find it missing did not only terrified her but also sparked a well of anger deep in her stomach. Whoever had chained her to the wall and stolen her possessions was going to pay and not in the kind of sweet words and silent seduction - no, Tirith had a pretty good idea who had taken her things. Her hair, although greasy, still managed to cling to the dying smell of Orc that hung in the air and the stench was so overpowering that Tirith gagged, tears of disgust rolling down her cheeks. There was only one way to deal with an Orc, and that was to kill the bastard before he could murder her.

Thirdly, she was not alone. A grimy figure hung opposite her, his body unnaturally thin and the mane of black hair that fell down his back was rugged and incredibly long. A disgusting strip of cloth hung around his slumped frame that as Tirith studied the man, she had the strangest feeling that she had met him before, but, before the Ranger could contemplate where and when a flicker of a torch stained against the pit wall. Tirith winced as the harsh light glinted in the corner of her eyes and she snapped her eyelids closed as the tall figure of Saruman the White stepped into the dark cell.

'So,' the Maiar said, his tongue gliding over his teeth as he approached the Ranger, the torch narrowly missing her face, 'you decided to jump off a tower,'

Tirith's lip curled, revealing her teeth as her dark eyes bore into the man's inky black.

'You are a bastard,' she hissed. 'Sauron cares nothing for partners. He'll rip you to shreds when he gets the chance.'

Saruman raised an eyebrow and reached a spindly hand up to grasp Tirith's cheek. The Ranger bit down on her lip as the White Wizard dug his long nails into her broken jaw, before dragging his fingers up to her mouth. Slowly, the White Wizard pride open the Ranger's mouth. Tirith let loose a suffocating breath as the Maiar slowly pushed his fingers into the folds of her lips, forcing her to choke and gasp for air.

'Stop,' a voice hissed, and Saruman paused, his face clouded with an expression that Tirith would later learn to be surprised. 'Stop that right now,'

'So,' said the Wizard as his fingers whipped out of Tirith's mouth as he turned to face the chained man, 'the Elf finally talks.'

Suddenly the Wizard grabbed Tirith's broken hand and squeezed it, causing the Ranger to yelp in pain as the first wave of aching distress pumped through her bloodstream. Tirith shut her eyes and groaned. The Wizard's gaze never left the Elf's shaking form.

'I said stop it!' cried the Elf, his teeth bared like a dog. 'Stop torturing one of the Faithful you fucking bastard!'

Tirith's eyes widened and her body froze as a brilliant burst of light exploded from the Elf's neck, slamming Tirith's back further into the crooked stone. She snapped her eyes shut as the light intensified and slowly, but surely Saruman released his grip on Tirith. With a flick of his staff the fire died, returning the cave to its utmost gloom that as the Wizard gracefully glided across the floor, his eyebrows raised in a questioning look as stars lined Tirith's vision.

'So,' said Saruman as he wiped his bloody hand on his robes. 'You're the famous Elf of Riverhaven. A human granted immortality by the Valour and then eventually turned into an Elf by Eru Ilúvatar and the Lady Galadriel of Lothlórien.'

He grinned and pulled several strands away from the Elf's face, revealing a pair of green eyes and thin lips.

'After all, this time, I finally discover who you are. So, shall I introduce you to the Guard of Isildur?'

Saruman suddenly grabbed the Elf by the head, slamming it into the wall behind him. With a quick tug to the Elf's chin, the Wizard brought it down again to face Tirith, and the Ranger's eyes widened. Through the blood and dirt that surrounded the Elf's face, Tirith could just make out a faint scar that was carved into his lower lip - a scar that was all too familiar. After all, she had inflicted it nearly two thousand eight hundred and ninety-one years ago when she was seventeen and he, twenty-seven.

'Tirith, Ranger of the North,' said Saruman as he placed the torch under the Elf's face, illuminating a silver pendant around the Elf's neck. 'Meet Tinadrieldur, Lord of Rivendell the bearer of the Evenstar and husband to Arwen, daughter of Elrond.'

Tirith didn't say anything; she just stared at the Elf who was supposed to have died in a hunting accident nearly ninety years ago.

'You worm,' spat Tirith as her eyes narrowed. 'Do you have any idea what Arwen has been through? She almost died!'

But the Ranger was cut off when Saruman suddenly flew at her, pressing the torch to the side of her face. Red-hot flames suddenly leapt onto Tirith's skin, scorching her flesh, turning it into a bubbling mass of skin, blood and fire.

Tirith's scream lit up Isengard like a captured spirit running through the halls. Her skin bubbled and oozed, stretching across her face like an unknown tattoo that by the time Curunír pulled the flame away from her face, the Ranger was crying; her tears mixing with blood and as they trickled down her face, they sizzled, sculpting the soft flesh.

Tirith screamed again as the Wizard pressed his hand against her face, pressing his nails against the broken bone. He screams grew louder, than she'd ever screamed. She kicked, thrashed and bit, trying anything to make the monster who stood before her to stop. Slowly the Wizard turned to face Tinadrieldur, whose face was almost as red as the blood that streaked his face and his emerald green eyes were ablaze with anger.

Eventually, the Wizard lowered his hand and slowly, but surely approached the Elf, his head tilted in a questioning look. With one sharp nail, the Wizard gently pulled a strand away from Tinadrieldur's face, once again revealing the bloodied cut that ran down his face. The Elf winced as the Wizard ran his hands over the cut before -

Tirith's eyes widened as the Wizard's face grew dark and -

Tinadrieldur's screams ran down Tirith's spine, causing the young woman to retch in anger. Eventually, when Tinadrieldur's cries turned to soul-shattering wipers, the Wizard turned to face the disfigured and hideous creature that was, unfortunately, an Orc.

Like the rest of its kind, the Orc was cruel, wicked, and bad-hearted, a creature that hated everybody and everything. It stood small and fat, with a wide mouth and long arms which, unfortunately, was covered in blood and grime. Tirith's stomach did a slow whirl.

'Mol,' stated Sauron, a wicked smile etched on his face, 'kill them,'

Tirith's eyes widened. The Orc smiled, and as the Servant of Sauron left the room, the creature raised its sword. Tirith slowly licked her lips as the creature came towards her, his body loose and ready for the easy meal that he was about to kill. Tirith glanced to Tinadrieldur. Her ears were ringing, reminding the Ranger of a bell that once hung out of her window, but that life had died and disappeared in a cloud of smoke long, long ago. Tinadrieldur nodded back. The Orc advanced, the sword raised. They needed to get out. They needed to get out right now!

Suddenly, Tirith's body lurched forward, her legs pushing off the wall behind her, straining her muscles. The Orc quickened its pace, slowly hobbling along on its uneven feet. Tirith's lips tightened as her arms moaned in anger and her vision blurred. The Orc was three paces away now, a hungry expression on his face. She wasn't going to make it. She wasn't going to make it. A tremendous scream left the Ranger's lips as the woman kicked one last time and -

Tirith yelped as her body clattered to the floor and she groaned in pain, but before the Ranger could cradle her hands in self-pity, the Orc charged. Somewhere between the spur of the moment and blind panic, Tirith charged towards the Orc. Tinadrieldur pulled on his bonds as the Ranger suddenly flipped, her legs climbing up the wall running parallel to the ground. The Orc barely had time to attack before the Ranger was above him, her feet gliding across the ceiling with surprising speed. She twisted his sword hand and ripped the deadly object out of his grip. Tirith scarcely had time to stop, that by the time she managed to land safely on the ground, the Orc had pulled out another weapon and advanced on his prey but this time, it was Tinadrieldur. The struggling Elf's eyes widened as the Orc spun around to face him, a lethal dagger now grasped in his hand.

The Elf struggled, his lips pressed together as he thrashed against the stone wall, his dark hair falling everywhere. Unlike Tirith, his bonds were attached deeper into the wall and as the Elf struggled he couldn't help but noticed just how close the Orc stood. As the dagger was raised, the husband of Arwen closed his eyes. But the blade never fell. Instead, a horrible thwack filled the Elf's ears, and a second later the sound of a heavy object smacking on the floor filled the cell. Slowly Tinadrieldur opened his eyes.

The Orc lay sprawled on the ground, his sword sticking out of the back of his head as if someone had thrown it. Eventually, Tinadrieldur's green eyes left the dead Orc and to the crouched Ranger who sat like a hunting spider; her unbroken hand splayed out and out in front of her; right where the Orc's crumpled body lay.

'Thank you,' Tinadrieldur whispered as the Ranger rose, her broken hand now pressed against her chest. Tirith nodded and slowly she approached the Orc, her eyes never leaving his still body.

'What are you doing?' asked Tinadrieldur, his brows furrowed.

'First rule in war,' hissed Tirith as she kicked the Orc with her heel, 'never take your eyes off your enemy.'

'But we aren't at war,' said the Elf as Tirith crouched down and began to rifle through the Orc's pockets, searching for the keys to unchain Tinadrieldur.

'Yes,' said Tirith as she rose, a single key clutched in her grip, 'yes we are,'

With that, the Ranger finally tore her gaze away from the Orc, approached the Elf and unlocked the chains that were wrapped around his wrists.

'I owe you,' the Elf whispered as he gently rubbed his wrists, which were covered blood and swollen. He was finally free.

'You can repay me,' said the Ranger as she twisted the sword, releasing it from the Orc's head, 'by getting the fuck out of here. But first, I need my accessories,'

'Accessories?' asked the Elf as Tirith hurried along the dark tunnel. 'You need a healer,'

'Hush,' snapped Tirith as she turned to face the Elf, 'or the bloody Orcs will hear you,'

That shut Tinadrieldur up. He needed to return to his wife if it was the last thing he did, he couldn't, no, wouldn't be down here a moment longer. Thankfully, Tirith's 'accessories' weren't that far away, however, as Tirith quickly threw away the Orc's sword and snatched her long knives she couldn't help but smile. A light hum vibrated up the metal, comforting her hands as they glowed, welcoming their master back. They had missed her, almost as much as she had missed them. Tinadrieldur's longbow was hanging on a hook, and the Elf nervously glanced at the rusted metal and sighed. At least his bow was in good condition.

'Fuck,' snapped Tirith as she surveyed the collection, her eyes scraping over the damage. 'My ring isn't here, Saruman must have it,'

'It's just a ring,' the Elf pressed, 'let's get out of here,'

Tirith's lips lifted into a snarl.

'Shut it pointy-ears,' she hissed as she rounded on the Elf, 'that ring cost me my brother's life. It's the only thing that I have of him, so I'd like to get it back, preferably before Sauron destroys it.'

'Why would he destroy it?' asked Tinadrieldur as he and Tirith hurried down the corridor, her eyes wide and her breath short.

'Because,' said Tirith, as her pace quickened, 'it is the Last Ring of Man. One of the Nine that Sauron gave to the Nine Kings doomed to die,'

Tinadrieldur fell silent after that, allowing the faint rise and fall of their feet to fill the quiet and extremely dark tunnel. The first and second hours were incredibly dull. With only the sound of squabbling and the scuffling of feet to keep the two escapees company. The two suddenly found themselves relishing in delight whenever an Orc wondered a little too far down the network of tunnels.

If Tirith had been an ordinary girl, born in a boring town, she would have most likely been killed the moment she had jumped off Isengard. Tinadrieldur's mood did not improve. His manner was just as sharp and repulsive when Tirith first met him, that by the time the third hour had struck, and the two had managed to scramble out of the treacherous pit which now lay in the undergrowth of Isengard, the Ranger couldn't possibly see how this ill-tempered Elf was Arwen's husband. Then again, more unusual things had surprised her in her long life for Tirith to be stunned by a small matter such as rudeness.

Isengard was in chaos. Trees, young and old; tall and short; thick and thin were on fire. Smoke clotted Tirith's vision like a swarm of flies hovering over dung that as she and Tinadrieldur ducked behind a felled tree in order not to be seen, the Ranger had the distinct feeling that if given a chance, Tinadrieldur would have ripped every Orc to shreds.

Tirith hissed as the darkened clouds opened, revealing the heavens and her breath hitched as the rain dripped down her face, touching her burn, however, there were far more important things to do than scream. Screaming wouldn't heal her. Quickly the two hid behind a felled tree and crouched down, their eyes locked on the camp and the stooped, grotesque and very cynical bodies that were the Orcs.

'Sauron's over there,' Tinadrieldur suddenly said, pointing to a small shack made out of broken pieces of a tree and a stretched canvas that protected him from the rain.

'What do you see?' asked Tirith as her grip tightened on the pommel of one of her knives. Her good hand curled around its base, as if her life depended on it. Tinadrieldur's eyes narrowed as he placed his a hand on his longbow and another on the rusted tip of an arrow.

'He's studying something,' he said as Saruman held up a glittering ring to the darkened sky. 'A silver ring embedded with-'

'Sapphires,' breathed Tirith as she straightened. 'That's my ring,'

'Well, then,' said Tinadrieldur as the rain smacked against his face like bird droppings, 'let's get your ring back,'

Tirith glanced towards the Elf, a small grin on her lips.

'I think I'm starting to like you Tinadrieldur,' said Tirith as she locked eyes with the dark-haired Elf. 'Your almost as reckless as I am,'

And then, all hell broke loose.

Tirith and Tinadrieldur's suddenly leapt, their legs stretching over the log like two longboats gliding over water. The Orcs reactions were spectacular. They rushed at the two escapees, their weapons drawn, but they had no chance against the two masters. Tinadrieldur lead the battle, his longbow flashing as he slashed a pointed end through an Orcs head or embedded an arrow in one's eye. Tirith cut, kicked and stabbed each creature that hurried towards her that by the time she had reached the edge of Saruman's tent, an army of the dead lay behind her.

Saruman barely had time to put the ring down when a body, smaller than he but no less intense, barrelled straight into him. The Lord of Isengard smacked onto the muddy ground below, his white robes smearing in the dirt as Tirith leered above him, her dark eyes filled with hate and anger. Her first strike against the Wizard, caused his nose to bleed. Her second caused the Wizard to groan in pain as she pulled at his ears, smashing them against the ground, running them underneath jagged rocks, breaking the skin and bone.

'You bastard,' she hissed as she raised her good fist again, ready to punch the Maiar in the face, but the blow never came. The Maiar opened his eyes to find that Tirith's closed fist was strapped safely in the hand of Tinadrieldur. The Elf had a grim expression on his youthful face that as he glanced down at the human, the Wizard almost felt sorry for him. He had to put up with the wild Ranger.

'Come on Tirith,' said the Elf, 'we have to go, the Orcs are advancing. Here, take your Ring and then let's get out of here,'

Tirith's murderous gaze never left the Wizard and then, after several seconds her hand slumped in defeat and she slowly peeled her body away from Saruman and stepped away from the Wizard.

'I'll you live Curunír,' hissed Tirith as she pointed her knife at the Maiar's throat, 'to let you think about what you have done and hopefully - although I doubt it very much - change your ways,'

The Ranger then turned, her hand outstretched to Tinadrieldur who dropped the Last Ring of Man into her palm. As Tirith reached up to unclip her necklace where another ring lay, this one coated in the blood of her people, she never noticed the White Wizard rise; snatching his staff from the ground and point his staff at Tinadrieldur's chest.

'TIRITH!' Tinadrieldur suddenly screamed as a flash of bright light exploded from the Wizard's staff. It soared through the air and would have touched Tinadrieldur if Tirith hadn't jumped in front of him, her hands splayed out in front of her.

A ripple of blue light erupted from the Last Ring of Man, enveloping the two in a warm glow that exploded outwards. The Wizard and surrounding Orcs were suddenly thrown to the ground, and as Tirith grabbed the Elf's hand, the light suddenly fell back into the Ranger's hands, like a crumbling city. With a tremendous scream, the Ranger and the Elf disappeared in a cloud of blue dust and silver smoke, leaving the Orcs and the Wizards to stare at the spot where the two had stood.

It was the flash of light that drew Pippin's attention away from his dying friend and towards the western part of the wood. Slowly the Hobbit rose, his hand pressing against the side of his sword and with a heavy but utterly terrified heart, the tiny creature ventured into the dark wood.

'Pippin,' hissed Merry as he noticed his cousin venture into the dark woods. He was alone. 'What are you doing?'

But Pipping ignored him. His feet took him further away from the camp, his mind riddled with questions that by the time he reached his destination, he almost tripped on the two unconscious figures. At first, the Hobbit though that the two were logs, because they were so still, however, as his eyes adjusted to the light he caught sight of red hair and the disgusting smell of burnt flesh. Pippin's eyes widened when his gaze finally settled on the two, very bloody and tortured figures of Tinadrieldur and Tirith. Blood trickled down each of their faces; their clothes wet from an unknown rain and as Pippin's gaze landed on the woman's bloodied hands, his lips parted in silent awe.

'STRIDER!' he suddenly screamed, turning to face the darkness. 'STRID-'

But the Hobbit's scream was cut short when a silver knife suddenly pressed to his throat, and the lips of the woman brushed his ear.

'Scream one more time, and you're dead,' she hissed.

'Please,' begged Pippin as he closed his eyes, 'don't kill me,'

Tirith's lips parted; her eyes as dark and cruel as the darkest and coldest pits in Mordor. She was not going to fall for the helpless Hobbit act again. Not ever again, Bilbo Baggins had taught her that.

'Tirith,' a cold voice said, causing the Ranger to freeze. 'That is enough,'

The Ranger's grip on the Hobbit and her knife faltered, and both clattered to the ground as Tirith sat in stunned shock. The Ranger's grey eyes took in the sculpted face and tall figure of Strider or as she knew him, Aragorn, heir of Isildur and the never man that she had promised herself not to love. A promise that she had broken so many years ago.

'Estel,' Tirith whispered, her eyes wide.

It was then that her conscious betrayed her.

Without warning, the Ranger slumped against Tinadrieldur, her vision darkening. The last thing she saw was Aragorn darting towards her, an expression of worry plastered across his face and in the distance, the sound of hooves smacking against earth.


	3. Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die

**Disclaimer:** **I do not own Lord of the Rings, that goes t Tolkien, and Peter Jackson, two men who's genius is far greater than I. I also so not own any information or characters from Born of Hope, that amazing story goes to the 'Actors at Work Productions'. I only own Rhelin, Rigwyn, Seon, Onyveth, Tycyn, Owagwyn, Tháron, Romon, Tinadrieldur, Æsa, Míriel II, and Tirith.**

 **Warning:** **There is blood, fighting, and swearing in this chapter.**

* * *

 **Name Pronunciation:**

 **Tirith - Tirr - ith**

 **Maia — Mia**

 **Tinadrieldur — Tina - dur - elder**

 **Æsa — Aeh - sah**

* * *

 **Nine for Mortal Men doomed to die,**

 **TA 2941**

The first time Estel met Tirith he was ten years old. A loud ruckus had erupted through the quiet night, running through the silent halls of Imladris; distilling the young boy out of his sleep and his dreams. It had been a good dream, Estel had noted, as he slipped a pair of boots over his bare feet and covered his arms with a warm cloak. It had been about his father. Or rather what the young boy assumed who his father was.

Many people - but mostly Elves, admitted that he looked like his father, a man who including Lord Elrond, revered greatly. However, whenever Estel tried to dig any further, a name, or a family lineage perhaps, his mother and the Elves suddenly fell silent, as if someone had sewn their lips tight.

The stars above Rivendell glinted merrily as the young boy slipped out of his chambers, cautiously looking back for a split second to see his mother sleeping soundly in her bed, her long golden hair spread around her. Even though he'd never tell her, Estel's mother reminded him of the Valar of Ever-Young, Lady Vána.

The halls were dark and quiet. However, the vast sound of rumbling laughter that bounced off the stone pillars were as warm, loud and boastful and as Estel strode down the corridors, he couldn't help but notice how un-Elf-like these laughs were. They were loud and rash, not the quiet tinkle that a few servants uttered whenever the sons of Lord Elrond let loose another wave of troublesome activities.

The thirteen Dwarves that had arrived in the Elven Sanctuary had migrated from the Great Hall and somehow manoeuvred themselves to the edge of the great home. Their mouths watered as they cooked meat over a small fire.

Meat was scarce in Rivendell since the Elves mainly consumed vegetables, the only meat that Estel was presented was hunted down by Maia and her brother Halbarad. That happened very rarely, sometimes taking up to four to six months depending on how long their adventures were. However, this time, the two Rangers were missing, and the last time Estel had seen the daughter and son of Halbaron, was when he was when he was eight. Two years had now passed, and the boy was now ten, and just like the last seven hundred and thirty days, there was no hide nor hair of Maia and Halbarad.

The Dwarves were several inches smaller then Estel, however, that didn't mean that their hair was longer and their bellies larger, that if the young boy were to venture out, he would be crushed in a sea of moving bodies and laughing friends. And so, he moved on his feet slowly but surely scuffling over the marble floor that by the time he reached the library, he was surprised to find that he was not alone.

A hooded figure sat at the base of a statue, opposite the large mural of the Dark Lord, Sauron reaching out to kill Isildur. The Prince of Old lay flat on his back, his sword high above his head, embedded in a glowing light of peace, prosperity and hope as he gazed up at the demon who stood against a darkened sky. Of course, the boy had heard the story a thousand times; it was one of the very first things he had asked his mother. She had stared at him for several seconds, blinked and then proceeded to tell him the story of Isildur. Truthfully, in the boy's eyes, the painting was all wrong.

Firstly, the Prince who was supposed to lead a noble people in peace and prosperity had led them to their doom. Secondly, the Ring that had ruined Isildur's people in Númenor was now in his grasp. Thirdly, Isildur had snatched his nephew's chance as joint ruler after his father had died and proclaimed himself as the sole ruler of Gondor and Arnor by being High King. To Estel, the Prince was a spoilt and untrustworthy man who ruined not only his own life but those he cared for.

 _'It's rude to stare,'_ the voice from the hood said, and Estel blinked. He hadn't meant to stare. _'Hasn't your mother ever told you that?'_

Estel frowned and approached the hooded figure. The voice was gruff as if the owner had a bad cold that just wouldn't go away. His Sindarin was awful as well. He - Estel guessed the figure was a "he'"- sat stooped, crossed legged and head down. His hood was pulled low over the bridge of his nose that as Estel cautiously sat down next to the hooded figure, he just noticed the faintest husk of red-brown hair peeking out from under the dark fabric.

 _'Yes,'_ said Estel, a little bravely, _'yes she did.'_

 _'Aye, I thought Gilraen would. You may be the son of a Ranger, but she defiantly would have drummed some mannerism into you,'_ the hooded figure lifted his head so that he could see Estel's face. _'You're lucky. My mother abandoned me with my uncle, when my father found out I wasn't his child and my adoptive brothers and sister didn't care that much for teaching me how to hold my knife and fork correctly. They did, however, allow me to swear like a sailor and kill a bear blindfolded.'_

 _'Your siblings sound mad. If I may, how did you know my father?'_ Estel admitted. _'I never knew he was a Ranger.'_

The hooded figure grunted.

 _'Aye, I knew your father, one of the bravest men I ever knew,'_ the figure pressed his rough hands to his forehead. _'But he was also the most reckless and idiotic person that I had the pleasure of meeting. I don't know how your mother kept that maniac in check,'_

 _'What does maniac mean?'_ asked Estel and the hooded figure let loose a laugh. The laugh was quiet, one filled with such sadness that Estel's smile wavered.

 _'Mad,'_ the figure answered. _'He was batshit crazy,'_

Estel frowned.

 _'That's rude.'_

The figure shrugged.

 _'Yeah, well, I knew far worse by the time I was your age. My siblings made sure of that,'_

 _'What are they like?'_ asked Estel as he shuffled closer to the figure.

 _'Their dead,'_ the figure replied. _'They all died in a war.'_

 _'All of them?'_ asked Estel, his eyes wide. The figure turned to face him and in the darkened night and glinting light from the moon, Estel couldn't help but notice that silvery tears trickled down the man's cheeks.

 _'They were massacred,'_ the figure whispered, raising an arm to point at the mural of Isildur and Sauron. _'By Sauron and his army many thousands of years ago,'_

 _'How many years?'_ asked Estel, his eyes wide.

 _'Too many. But not enough of me to forget,'_ the figure answered. And then, the figure was rising, his tall frame pressing into the statue like a mother's hug that by the time Estel got to his feet, he realised just how tall the figure was.

He was about the same height as an Elf, but a few inches smaller, settling around six feet eleven or seven foot one; his legs were long and lean; his torso narrow and his shoulders weren't very broad. He was what his mother would have called, 'skinny' or as Elladan put it, 'unmanly'. Two tattoos lay wrapped around his wrists, binding the man's skin and bone together in a language that looked as old and dangerous as time itself. However, that didn't mean a sense of power echoed around the man, predominately around his neck where a simple silver and blue ring lay.

Suddenly an arrow appeared out of nowhere; nicking the man's hood; splaying the fabric; grazing his ear, and then the sons of Lord Elrond dropped down from the rafters, their longbows locked in their hands and the tips of their arrows trained on the figure's head.

 _'I thought we told you to leave him alone,'_ Elladan hissed as Elrohir pushed Estel away with his foot. The figure raised both his hands in surrender. However, Estel noted he didn't seem to be scared.

 _'My Lords,'_ the figure whispered. _'Lets not get too arrogant. I am a guest of your father; I'm afraid you cannot kill me while I'm here,'_

 _'That doesn't mean we can't hurt you,'_ hissed Elrohir. _'It's because of you, Guard, that our mother is in the Undying Lands.'_

The figure turned his head as if judging whether the two sons of Elrond were worthy to fight. Estel noticed his right hand was twitching as if he wanted to unsheathe a blade and battle the twins until the bloody end. Instead, the man bowed to Estel, bringing his hand across his chest.

'Goodbye Master Estel,' the figure said, Westron tracing his lips as he rose. 'Do say, "Hello" to your good mother for me.'

And then, the figure in black had leapt onto the statue; latched their hands onto the beams and swung up onto the roof above. Elladan and Elrohir, however, did not move, until the figure's footsteps had retreated, leaving nothing but the smell of a strange earthy scent in the air.

 _'Come on,'_ said Elrohir, rather roughly as he lowered his longbow and grabbed Estel by the arm. _'Your mother's looking for you,'_

 _'But who was that man?'_ asked Estel as Elladan took his other arm and together the sons of Elrond led him back down the corridor he had come.

 _'He isn't a man,'_ Elladan answered as he stopped outside Estel's room that he shared with his mother. _'She is a monster,'_

 _'She?'_ asked Estel. Elladan nodded.

 _'Her name is Tirith - it's Sindarin for Guard,'_ he snorted. _'Not that she does much "guarding" now anyway,'_

'Who was she guarding?' asked Estel.

 _'Isildur,'_ said Elrohir as he knocked on the door. _'She was guarding Isildur…and then he banished her,'_

 _'Why?'_ Estel asked. Elladan and Elrohir simultaneously sighed.

 _'We don't exactly know, all we know is that Tirith is her taken name and her birth name is lost forever,'_ admitted Elladan as Estel's mother opened the door, her blue eyes wide with worry.

The Elf cleared his throat.

 _'We found him, Lady Gilraen, in the library,'_

 _'The library?'_ asked Estel's mother, her brows furrowed. _'Why in Eru's name - what were you doing there?'_

 _'I heard laughter, and I had a dream,'_ Estel admitted.

 _'A bad dream?'_ asked his mother as she knelt in front of her son, her blue eyes lining up with his grey.

Estel shook his head.

 _'No, it was good - it about father… I think,'_

His mother's face softened, and she smiled softly.

 _'Did you know he was a Ranger?'_ asked Estel. His mother's eyes widened.

 _'Where did you hear that?'_ she asked, her surprise echoing around her features like a bird taking flight.

 _'Tirith told me. She says "Hello,"'_

Lady Gilraen's face paled, and she gently placed her hands on her son's shoulders.

 _'Listen to me Estel,'_ she said. _'I don't want you going anywhere near Tirith, not now or ever. Do you understand? That woman is a cold-hearted killer.'_

Slowly Estel nodded.

 _'Good,'_ said his mother as she straightened and pointed her arm to his bed. _'Now go back to sleep!'_

With that, the young boy hurried into the room; removed his cloak and scrambled into bed. It took several seconds for sleep to overtake him, that by the time his mother gently kissed his forehead, he was asleep.

However, Estel would one day break his promise, when that young boy was on the brink of manhood he would follow Tirith into several wars and adventures that would last for twenty-three years. During that time he would be known as Thorongil and she, Pedir and it wouldn't be until Estel reached his thirty-first birthday did he realise that he, a young man with a life full of adventures and ideas was completely and utterly in love with the woman he'd met in the library all those years ago.

* * *

 **TA 3008**

So far, the disease had cropped up in five different villages, spreading across the North like wildfire, that by the time Aragorn son of Arathorn reached the hidden region of Evendim, over three hundred Dúnedain children had died. The Silver Silence was as old and daunting as Arda itself, and while the cursed disease hadn't been seen in over three centuries, it had travelled over air and water before finally settling in the haunted mountains of the North.

A sharp wind ripped along Aragorn's spine, causing the young Ranger to shiver as he walked through the thick layer of snow that had fallen over the Kingdom of Eriador. Through the falling snow, and freezing wind, the Ranger could just make out the large slope which rose out of the waters of Lake Nenuial, and sitting atop the ancient monument, rising above the western horizon, the city of Annúminas loomed above. It glinted in the harsh sunlight as if nothing other than the Valar could protect it. Slowing, the Ranger turned to face his companion, whose face was concealed by a thin travelling coat and a long mane of red-brown hair. Whether Tirith of the North and East was cold, Aragorn did not know, however, as the two reached the summit of the mountain, the tiny village of Taurdal appeared in a cloud of freezing wind and icy snow.

The village had indeed changed since Aragorn was a child. Once the village had nestled quietly into the cliff face, its untidy selection of thatched huts and curious statues lurking unseen in a region of chaotic violence and unusual happenings. As Aragorn fixed his eyes on the stone wall and the large castle, a sense of dread and fear settled over his heart. What kind of a welcome would he and Tirith expect in a place like this? Gone was the comforting simplicity of the site, now replaced with a haunting image of a village long forgotten. It had been almost seventy-four years since the Chieftain of the Dúnedain had stepped foot in the place he had been born, and although it was likely no one would know who he was, the Ranger couldn't help but feel a little bit cautious as he approached his birthplace.

'There's no need to worry,' Tirith whispered, her dark grey eyes curious and stern as she watched her leader, her lips pulled into a quiet, measured smile. 'They won't hate you,'

'I abandoned them,' Aragorn whispered, turning to face the Ranger with sad eyes. 'How could they not hate me,'

'You were two years old, Aragorn.' Tirith assured, her face softening slightly. 'They will forgive you; it was not your fault your father died.'

'And if they don't?' Aragorn asked, his dark eyes peering up into Tirith's tired face. There were not too many times that the Chieftain of the Dúnedain questioned his guard, but as his dark eyes settled on her face, watching her jaw clench in fear, he had a horrible feeling that maybe, just perhaps, Tirith was not sure.

For several seconds the two stared at each other, their dark eyes peering into the very depths of their souls, and then, almost as if the Valar commanded it, Tirith sighed, her hand reaching up to tuck a stray strand of hair back behind her ear.

'Then, so be it,' the Ranger answered, her voice barely reaching Aragorn's freezing ears. The Chieftain of the Dúnedain nodded as if excepting his guard's answer and he was just about to open his mouth when a cloaked figure suddenly appeared over a broad ridge, their clock pull tightly around their spindly body.

Their clock was old, but finally decorated, with a silver trim of protective runes sewn delicately around the edge and a large broach of a brilliant white tree held the cloth together, conflating not only its wearer but producing the figure with unknown magic. A strange tangle of wire lay wrapped around the figure's waist and attached to their back, the hilt of a bow glinted in the harsh sunlight. Tirith's long fingers immediately tightened around her knives as the figure stopped, watching the two trespassers beneath a blackened hood. The figure shifted, as if unsure what to do, and then, with shaking hands the Warden of Annúminas pulled at their hood, revealing a mane of beautiful blonde hair and teary eyes.

A smile danced across Aragorn's features as Maia daughter of Halbaron approached her Chieftain, her bright eyes wide, as a broad smile graced her lips, however, as the Ranger approached, her arms flying around her as she ran, Aragorn noticed something a little bit off about his old mentor and friend. The woman, although ninety, looked far older than the thirty-eight years she was supposed to be. Her sun-coloured hair that had once gained her far too much attention than she needed was streaked with white; her skin ached, revealing harsh lines and large black bags that sat under her once well-preserved skin. However, it was the silvery veins that stretched across her skin that caused the Ranger's heart to fall. It seemed, that his scout's information and be wrong, even adults could obtain the Silver Silence. The Chieftain quickly caught his friend as she tumbled towards the two, her body collapsing into Aragorn's arms as Tirith's breath hitched as Maia's shirt shifted, revealing several large burns that covered her tanned skin.

'You're, - you're here,' Maia gasped, her voice shaking with each breath as she reached up to Aragorn's cheek, touching her student's jaw with a bust of her callused fingers. 'We, - we were unsure that, - that anyone was, - was ever going, - going to arrive,'

'What happened?' Tirith asked as she slipped off her pack and fumbled with the hooks, desperately trying to open it as quickly as possible. Maia grimmest, her light eyes darkening as she spotted Tirith crouching over her. The Warden of Annúminas smacked the Ranger's hand away as Tirith tried to press a rag covered in a blue ointment to her face. The cloth dropped out of Tirith's grip as she rose, her eyes dark and unreadable. Aragorn shifted uncomfortably as Tirith snarled, her lips curling in anger. Some things, apparently never changed.

'Why the hell is she here?' Maia asked, her eyes narrowing in anger as she clung to her Chieftain's arm.

'She's helping,' Aragorn whispered, as Tirith shrugged off her jacket, quickly covering Maia in the thin fabric. 'Now tell me what happened. Why do you have the Silver Silence? Our informants only said that children could get it.'

For several seconds, the Warden of Annúminas stared at the snowy hilltops that loomed above her, the veins on her lips slowly turning a horrid grey colour.

'Children get it because they're susceptible to the poison. However, you can also catch it if you've had children,' Maia gasped. 'Three of the Warden's have already died.'

'You've had children!' Tirith gasped, eyes wide. Maia snorted, chuckling darkly.

'Of course, I have. I have five.'

'Are they in Taurdal?' Aragorn asked, his eyes narrowed as another nodded figure climbed to the top of the ridge, their bow clutched in their hand. Maia shook her head.

'I haven't seen them for a long time,' she winced, pressing her hand to one of her burns. 'My husband burnt me at the stake - he thought I was a witch,'

A sharp hiss escaped Maia's lips as Tirith growled, her eyes wide with uncontrollable anger, however, before she could open her mouth to speak, the second Warden of Annúminas approached. Judging by the long scarf that lay wrapped around the Warden's mouth and the deadly longbow that lay strapped in their dainty hands, the Protector of Eriador was indeed another woman. A man's coat strung over her shoulders, the wooden fabric dark and brown and tucked neatly into her hands, a vicious longbow lay. However, as she collapsed to her knees, ripping Maia away from her Chieftain, Aragorn noticed the faint tattoo's that graced the woman's arms. Before Maia or Tirith could even breathe, Aragorn had pinned the Warden of Annúminas to the snowy ground, the curve of his blade digging harshly into the woman's throat.

'Aragorn!' Maia snapped. 'Stop hurting her! She'd a Dúnedain!'

'No, she isn't. This imposter is from Dale.' Aragorn hissed, his grey eyes never leaving the woman's raised eyebrows. The woman snorted, rolling her silver coloured eyes.

'Actually,' she answered, gently pushing the blade away from her throat to that she could speak. 'I'm from Lake-town - but whatever floats your boat.'

'That's impossible! You're too young,' Aragorn whispered, 'Esgaroth burnt to the ground nearly seventy years ago,'

'It's not impossible,' Tirith said as she watched the woman with curious eyes. 'Just highly unlikely.'

The women's dark eyes shifted from Aragorn to Tirith, and they crinkled as she smiled beneath the scarf.

'Hello Tirith,' the woman whispered, Dalish gently gracing her tongue. Tirith bowed her head, a broad smile dancing across her lips.

'Good evening, girl,' Tirith answered. Aragorn's eyes widened as the Warden rolled from underneath him, the scarf unravelling on the icy ground as she rose to her feet, revealing a mane of dark hair and tattooed skin that caressed her cheekbones and neck. For several seconds, the son of Arathorn watched as the Warden picked up her longbow, pulling on the string as if testing every possible angle to kill the Chieftain.

As the sun fell over the snow covered mountains, Aragorn's stomach dropped. It was evident, the Chieftain noted, as the woman gently picked up Maia, muttering to her in a language that Aragorn could not understand. With her dark hair and thin lips, the woman looked eerily like Aragorn's aunt, the lost Lady of Riverhaven. A child, who as soon as she could, had run away from Lord Elrond's care, escaping the crushing responsibility of marriage. A maiden who had run far and wide before collapsing onto the docks of Esgaroth, clutching for life. A woman who had faced a dragon so terrifying he had almost burnt her alive. A Queen who had married a lonely Bargeman.

Tilda daughter of Bard of Esgaroth and Æsa of the North turned, a mischievous grin etched on her innocent face.

'Come on cousin,' she cried, her gaze settling over the craggy mountains to where the pointed rooftops of Taurdal lay. 'You have a village to save.'

* * *

 **TA 3018**

Only the legends and the Elves remembered a time when humans worshipped the Valar. However, as Aragorn's gaze settled on Tirith's exhausted body, the son of Kings couldn't help but utter a silent prayer to the spirits of Eru Ilúvatar, his breath curling in the darkened air as the copper-haired Elf checked his companion's wounds.

Tauriel of Rivendell was a strange Elf, that was true because although the Elleth was beautiful for a child of Woodland Realm, the ex-Guard of King Thranduil had not only managed to fall in love with a dwarf but had somehow managed to capture the attention of Legolas Thranduilion, Prince of Greenwood.

A thick cord hung from her neck, clutching a dwarvish rune stone in its grasp, that as Tauriel prodded Tirith's arm with a long nail, a thin beam of moonlight reflected the ancient stone off her breast. Her medical pouch lay open, revealing a series of medical herbs and strange glowing bottles; her bow lay beside it, a quiver of arrows strapped to her side.

'Well,' Tirith whispered, as Tauriel pressed a strange coloured ointment to the Ranger's face. 'What's the damage?'

'That you should stop jumping off buildings, my friend.' Tauriel answered, her lips thin, her eyes narrowed. With a huff, Tirith crossed her arms, folding them across her chest as she fixed the red-haired Elf with an indulgent look. Tauriel snorted, her green eyes rolling in their sockets as she rose, turning to face Aragorn who stood behind her.

'Honestly Estel, you'd think after three thousand years she would have second thoughts about jumping off buildings but no!' Tauriel snapped, throwing her arms into the air as the heir of Isildur raised an eyebrow. 'What is this - the fourth building she's jumped?'

'Ninth,' Tirith whispered, her lips curling into a smile as the Elf glared at her. A small grin spread across Aragorn's lips as Tauriel flicked Tirith's head, the two arguing in a language that was older than Sindarin. Quenya was strange, Aragorn admitted, and although he did know it, the son of Lord Arathorn had decided long ago that he would only talk the ancient language when he was crowned king - whenever that was going happen.

A delicate shadow caused Aragorn to turn, his dark eyes fixing on the pale and extremely startled face of Arwen, daughter of Lord Elrond. When Aragorn was a boy, the young man had fallen in love with the granddaughter of Galadriel. However, her elder brothers, Elladan and Elrohir had soon explained that she was widowed, and although they found his admiration if their sister entertaining and sweet, an Elf only ever gave their heart once - in short, she'd never love him in return.

The elleth's long fingers ran through her dark hair, tears dripping down her porcelain coloured face as she stared at the place where her husband had had been ninety years since Arwen and Tinadrieldur had set eyes on each other, and although Aragorn felt sorry for his adopted sister, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain was grateful to the Elf in his partake in finding Tirith - she had after all been missing for several months.

To the right of Arwen, gathered around a warm fire, Merry, Pippin and Sam sat, their expressions grave and unchanging. It had been exactly two hours since Glorfindel, Lord of the House of the Golden Flower had left, Frodo and Tinadrieldur in his grip, that the Hobbit had barely eaten or drunk a thing. The clearing was surprisingly quiet without the three's content complaining.

'Do you think his injuries have improved?' Arwen asked, turning to face her adopted brother with teary eyes. Aragorn smiled, reaching out to clutch the daughter of Lord Elrond's hand.

'I think,' Aragorn whispered, smiling a small smile. 'That Tinadrieldur is perfectly content in the house of your father. There is no need to worry, Arwen.'

The daughter of Lord Elrond and Lady Celebrían bit her lip.

'I hope so, Estel,' she whispered as Tauriel grabbed Tirith's arm, preparing the woman of the re-break of her bleeding hand. 'For all our souls,'

Aragorn winced, snapping his eyes tight as Tirith yelped in pain and his grip on his sister's hand tightened. It had been several years since Tirith had screamed and although the woman of Númenor was several thousand years older than him, Aragorn was not the little boy in the library anymore. He had taken lives, burnt homes in his wake and rose to lead a nation of people so secretive; they had almost fallen into myth.

For the last sixty-six years, Tirith of the North had followed him. Although the Ranger couldn't think of a world without her, the descendant of Elros Tar-Minyatur knew that the banished Guard of Isildur would walk the twisted pathways of Middle-Earth, until The Once sunk the high valleys of Arda beneath the deadly blue waves. And even then, she may survive. Tirith of the North, West and East certainly was not the first human to walk the face of the earth, but she certainly would be the last.


	4. One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne

**Disclaimer:** **I do not own Lord of the Rings, that goes t Tolkien, and Peter Jackson, two men who's genius is far greater than I. I also so not own any information or characters from Born of Hope, that amazing story goes to the 'Actors at Work Productions'. I only own Rhelin, Rigwyn, Seon, Onyveth, Tycyn, Owagwyn, Tháron, Romon, Tinadrieldur, Æsa, Míriel II, and Tirith.**

 **Warning:** **There is blood, fighting, death, and swearing in this chapter.**

* * *

 **Name pronunciation:**

 **Tirith: Tirr-ith**

 **Tycyn - Tie - can**

 **Owagwyn - Oh - wag - in**

 **Rigwyn - Rig - win**

 **Tháron - Thaa - ron**

 **Seon - Sea - on**

 **Míriel Elentir: Murhh-ree-eell æ-lenn-tear**

 **Naurmaed Eltíriaiel: Nar-may -ed El-tirr-al-ell**

 **Maia — Miaa**

* * *

 **One for the Dark Lord on his dark throne**

 **TA 2941**

Contrary to popular elvish gossip, Estel stayed away from Tirith, choosing to talk to the laughing Dwarves who had been cooking sausages over their small campfire. They were loud, bumbling and perfectly happy for a "not-elf," as he was later called, to join them. He ate meat for the first time in years, an incident which not only made his mother slightly agitated that he might vomit his guts up, but was a tasty treat while it lasted.

The Hobbit, or Mr Bilbo Baggins, as Estel later learnt to call him, was by far the friendliest Hobbit he had ever met. Then again, he had never really met one before, but it was safe to say they were an interesting species. His mouth had dropped open when Bilbo had mentioned that Hobbits ate at least seven meals a day, and a loud laugh had bubbled to his lips when Bilbo told him about his adventures as a young boy. A few Elves gathered around the two, listening to the tall tales, that at one point, Estel believed everything that was coming out of the middle-aged Hobbit's mouth, until Elladan laughed.

While most of the Rivendell Elves stayed away from the Dwarves and Bilbo, it was Tirith they were all really staying away from, choosing to walk the other way whenever Estel saw her, as if they were afraid. At meals, she strayed too close to Elrond's side, her hands dancing over the table top as she ate her meals. Once she smiled at Estel, waving at him, but as soon as her grey eyes landed on his, the young Lord had turned away. It was almost unnerving the amount of times Tirith just turned up, whether it be because the Dwarves were doing something stupid, or just to hear Bilbo's stories, she was there.

It was coming around to the third night, when Estel found himself in a rather uncomfortable situation. Water rushed down the side of the mountain, catching the moon's silvery glow in the foam. The waterfall was by far, one of prettiest places Rivendell had to offer, and more than once, the Twins brought Estel to watch the water, but that night, as Estel stared at the spring, he heard the sound of thumping feet.

Quickly, and hopefully not making a sound, Estel ran around so that he hid behind a pillar, and just as he pressed himself to the smooth stone wall, Lord Elrond, and a few of the dwarves entered the room. As Estel peered behind the white stone, he caught sight of his foster father stepping forward towards a large glass altar that sat on the edge of the waterfall's cave, its surface shining with moonlight. However, it was the strange paper in the Elven Lord's hands that peeked Estel's interest.

'These runes were written on a Midsummer's Eve by the light of a crescent moon nearly two hundred years ago.' Lord Elrond breathed, as he set the parchment down on the altar, his eyes a mixture of awe and what Estel assumed, fascination. 'It would seem you were meant to come to Rivendell.'

The Lord of Rivendell turned, gaze connecting with the dwarves leader, and for a faint second, Estel thought he saw a faint trace of fear in Elrond's eyes.

'Fate is with you, Thorin Oakenshield; the same moon shines upon us tonight,' the Elf-King breathed, and before anyone could even move, he looked to the sky, watching as the clouds shifted, revealing the silvery moon.

As if waiting for some sort of announcement, a thin stream of moonlight shone down on the parchment, and from the pillar, Estel caught the glowing silver that cut against Elrond's face.

Licking his lips, the Lord of Rivendell raised the map, dark eyes reading the message that lay, as if hoping that it was wrong.

'Stand by the grey stone when the thrush knocks, and the setting sun with the last light of Durin's Day will shine upon the keyhole,' he translated, eyes narrowed, voice mellow, and clear, and strong.

'Durin's Day?' Bilbo asked, brows furrowed.

Gandalf smiled weakly, and turned to face the Hobbit.

'It is the start of the dwarves' near year,' he explained, 'when the last moon of autumn and the first sun of winter appear in the sky together.'

The Leader of the Dwarves sighed deeply, hand touching his chin as he stared at the cold moon.

'This is ill new,' he murmured looking at Gandalf as Elrond departed from the pedestal, mind clouded in thought. 'Summer is passing. Durin's day will soon be upon us.'

'We still have time,' an elderly dwarf reassured, stepping forward and smiling grimly.

Bilbo frowned. Estel's heart leapt. What on earth did the dwarf mean? He clutched the pillar tighter, waiting for an answer, as the Hobbit frowned.

'Time?' Bilbo asked. 'For what?'

The air seemed to thicken as the dwarf looked among the group, eyes widening with an excitable frenzy as he struggled to keep his pride, and joy in check. Estel frowned. Durin's Day must be rather important.

'To find the entrance!' the white haired dwarf cried. 'We have to be standing at exactly the right spot at exactly the right time. Then, and only then, can the door be opened.'

'So this is your purpose,' Elrond breathed, a lick of anger tinged in his voice, that for a brief second, Estel wondered if his foster father was going to lecture the old dwarf, 'to enter the Mountain?'

It wouldn't be the first time, or the last for that matter, that Elrond had advised a weary traveller. He had done it to Halbarad and Maia once they had left to go wherever they went.

The Dwarf King sneered, blue eyes glittering dangerously as he looked at the Elf.

'What of it?' he asked, lips thinning.

Elrond's face smoothed into a thin line, as he looked at the dwarf.

'There are some who would not deem it wise.' Elrond warned, handing the map back to the Dwarf King, who grunted gruffly. Gandalf frowned, lips pursed into a thin line as he looked at the Elf.

'What do you mean?' he questioned. Elrond turned, jaw tightening as he stared at the Maiar.

'You are not the only guardian to stand watch over Middle Earth!' the Elf warned, anger curling in his voice. 'Remember who you have in your company, Mithrandir. Remember exactly what Tirith used to do, and who exactly she chose to guard, and especially remember, what happened next.'

Up until that point, most of the company had stayed quiet, the few dwarves who had followed their King, Elrond and Gandalf into the chamber, choosing to stay silent. However it was as the Lord of Rivendell was about to walk away, that a tall, black cloaked figure approached, their twin swords twinkling in the cold moon. Estel's eyes widened as the figure removed their cloak, revealing a pair of wicked grey eyes and long red hair. Estel's most dried. He recognised that cloak.

'Lord Elrond,' the woman said, bowing low, so that her hair almost touched the ground. 'May I talk with you alone,'

As if sensing that they were being pushed away, Gandalf and the dwarves reluctantly left, their rumblings loud for all to hear, and it wasn't until the Hobbit had rushed off, sending a look of questioning pity in the woman's direction that she finally spoke.

'That was uncalled for,' she said, bluntly, eyes glittering as she leaned against the pedestal. 'You have no right to dig up the past.'

Elrond sighed, pressing a hand to his forehead. In the cold light, Estel's father figure suddenly looked older, ancient even.

'Umal-' the Lord began, but he was silenced by Tirith's thin gaze.

'Don't you dare defile your tongue with that horrid translation,' she breathed, fuming. 'That is not my name and you know it!'

Elrond closed his eyes. Apparently he had, had this conversation before.

'Then what would you like me to call you?' he finally asked.

Tirith's lips pursed.

'I was given the name Tirith by Lord Oromë, just like those chosen before me, so I would prefer if you use it.'

'Fine,' Elrond breathed. 'I apologise Tirith, but Mithrandir needed to be reminded of who he has as an alley. Once you were considered a great warrior.'

Tirith snorted.

'I am a great warrior,' she retorted. 'And you didn't need to tell him about me. You know Olórin wants to understand why you recommended me! He'll figure it out!'

Elrond's eyes hardened.

'And maybe Olórin must find out for you to move past everything, Tirith,' Elrond explained, as if he were talking to a petulant child. 'You cannot hide in the past forever, it will kill you.'

Tirith scowled.

'I have been around for almost two ages,' she breathed, voice hardening as she spoke. 'I think if the Valar, or anyone else for that matter, wanted me dead they would have wished for me to follow in the footsteps of the children of Seon. I would have died in the Siege of Barad-dûr instead of living a cursed life.'

She paused, and Estel suddenly realised that she was reigning in her anger. When she next spoke, her voice was soft.

'Rhelin, Rigwyn, Owagwyn, and Tycyn maybe lost to time, and their true names forbidden amongst the mortal realms of this earth, but I will remind you, brother of my ancestor, that I will not fall to the same fate as them. If you are afraid that Sauron will empty me, then let me remind you that he never can. He will never rule me, for my name is locked in curse. Remember? My name will never be spoken, for everyone who one spoke my tongue is dead, and even if a King were able to speak it, even if a child of Isildur was to utter those words, then I doubt they would be able to end this curse…. That, is what keeps me going — the knowledge, that no matter how hard, no one can use me…. Not anymore…and that is something only I can keep.'

Estel couldn't help but be afraid as the woman slunk off, swords glittering in the cold night and as the son of a ranger, turned away, he couldn't help but wonder how Elrond and Tirith were related. "Brother of my ancestor," she had said, as if that had meant something. It was only as Estel was walking away, trying to find his way back to the great hall, that he realised that both he, Elrond and Tirith all shared the same, stormy grey eyes.

* * *

 **TA 3008**

A strong wind ripped across Arnor, tugging at the Ranger's cloak, begging his regal face to shine. It had been three days since he and Tirith had arrived in Taurdal and yet, even with Lord Elrond's potions and remedies, twenty people had died. Surprisingly, Maia was still holding on, but Aragorn had a horrible feeling that she would only last a few more hours before the Silver Silence encased her completely. A horrible feeling drifted in his jut as he manoeuvred around a large rock. It wasn't fair.

Tirith had disappeared with Tilda, disappearing into the mountains four hours after Maia slipped into unconsciousness. That had been a day ago, and the two woman had not returned. Aragorn, although used to Tirith spending days, if not months in the wilderness, on her own, was a little surprised when the people of Taurdal had begged him to search for Tilda. Normally, he would have given the woman at least another day before searching for them, but the hesitancy in his people's voice, and the fact that Tilda was his cousin, eventually made the Chieftain seek them out.

As he stepped out from behind the bolder, shaking snow from his cloak, he turned to gaze on the home of his ancestors. Truthfully, Aragorn was a little surprised that he had tracked Tilda and Tirith's tracks so far away from the village. He was grateful that hardly any snow had fallen since he had set out, but still, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain was a little nervous to stand in the shadow of his familial home. Annúminas' shadow loomed above him, the pale palace staring over a kingdom of nothingness. Aragorn guessed it would have, at one point, been quiet beautiful, with hundreds of people weaving in and out of its large hallways and domed roof. But after two thousand years, the city had crumbled to ruins.

As he made his way through the broken gates, he couldn't help but notice there were a lot of odd looking statures. Some were talking, conversing to others, as if trapped in a conversation long forgotten; others, mostly children, were playing, a ball kicked between a group. There were stall venders and market filled with ghostly people. Stone apples, and bread lined the stalls, as if they had been freshly baked earlier that morning. There was even a fountain caught in stone, as if the sculpture had tried to create an entire city made out of rock. It was so strange, very, very strange in deed.

Shivering, Aragorn left the creepiness of the courtyard, and headed in the direction of the domed capital. It rose out of the grond like a mountain, the white stone grubby and smashed after years of neglect. A golden doorway lay flat across the marble floor, it's once handsome design worn away from the thousands of feet that had crossed it. Windows were broken, and the domed roof which had once allowed light to steam into the heart of the building was smashed and its beams rotten.

Aragorn's heart fell. It was truly painful to see a once former, and glorious kingdom distorted after humans had left. Eyes raised, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain pressed his hand to his forehead, shielding the bright sun as it fell across the cold marble. The place was just a little too weird for comfort.

The inside, was just a ruined as the outside. Enormous columns which, from what Aragorn could understand, had held up the second floor, were lying in disarray, as if someone had decided to play an enormous game of chess, and had thrown a tantrum when they had lost. Vines, and moss clung to the walls, covering withered paintings and murals, giving the impression that nature had purposely tired to cover the stories, as if to wipe the past clean.

Giant cracks, the size of bears, webbed the ground, along with a jungle of leaves, plants and something Aragorn hoped were ferns. A staircase rose to the right of the door, leading to an unknown landing, leaving only a stone presuppose and a large drop to remain of the top floor. There was a faint patch of snow in the corner of the room, next to a disturbing pile of Orc skeletons. A huge pit lay next to that and there was a faint smell of something rotting climbing up from the hole. However, it was the giant, dead tree, that sat in the centre of the room, that made Aragorn's stomach churn.

It looked like a skeleton, it's roots, and arms hanging like the dead, that for once, Aragorn hoped the stories his mother had told him, of how people used to hang traitors on the tree, were not true. It was quiet large, extending to the top of the caved ceiling, that as Aragorn passed it, hand tracing its ancient bark, he suddenly wondered if this was an ancestor of the White Tree of Gondor, and if this was simply the parent to the many others that had come after, and the descendant of the several which had come before.

As Aragorn turned to the corpses of Orcs, he suddenly noticed a small campfire sitting under the withered shade of the tree. A large tarp covered a few of the lower branches, protecting the travellers from falling snow, or rain, and from what Aragorn could tell, it had only been erected recently. Pressing a hand to the hilt of his blade, Aragorn approached the campsite, eyes skirting around the place.

'Who's there?' a voice breathed, and Aragorn paused, eyes narrowed as a figure pushed themselves further into the shadows.

'I am Estel,' Aragorn whispered, not wishing to tell the stranger his true name.

'Estel?' the voice questioned. 'Wait - Aragorn?'

Frowning, Aragorn reached into his coat pocket, and retrieved a flint stone, and a handful of hay. He ran the flint along the marble floor, catching a light on the dry-grass as he put the flame underneath it. He didn't have long, for the hay would burn, but as Aragorn lifted the burning grass up to the figure, a thin smile danced along his mouth.

'Tilda,' he breathed, stepping forward into his cousin's line of sight.

'Hey,' Tilda whispered, throat sounding dry. 'Where the hell have you been?'

'I can ask you the same question.' Aragorn muttered.

Tilda looked like she had been dragged through the pits of Mordor, lived, and then turned around and been dragged through it again. Her dark hair was smouldering, and cut short above her ear and her face was bloody and swollen, as she clutched her face with a broken hand, pressing a cold rag to her bust lip. Her other hand lay on her right leg, fingers tightening and untightening around the broken joint, as if trying to pull the ligament back together. Her bow and jacket hung beside her, the arrows long gone, and under the darkness of the tarp, Aragorn realised a dead Orc lay beside her, its throat slit.

'What happened?' Aragorn asked.

Tilda grinned and nudged the Orc.

'I've decided to name him Bob,' her smile widened as the corpse slumped forward, and she patted his ugly head. 'He kind of looks like a Bob, doesn't he?'

Aragorn fixed her a thin look.

'Tilda.' he warned, pitching the bridge of his nose. 'Why is there a dead Orc sitting next to you?'

Tilda's eyebrows raised.

'Funny story that,' she muttered, elbowing the corpse again. 'This old fella, decided to come skulking out of that hole. Apparently, he had already killed his people, and decided to come after Tirith and I. Its safe to say we made short work of him,'

She grinned again, before doubling over and coughing. Kneeling beside her, Aragorn placed his pack on the ground and began to look for something to bind his cousin's leg. Eventually he found an old tunic, and after a small snort from Tilda, the Chieftain of the Dúnedain began to bind his cousin back together.

'Where's Tirith?' he asked, as he looked through the depts of his backpack, taking out a strange ointment he had got fromElrond.

Tilda shrugged as Aragorn gently took her broken hand away from her bleeding mouth.

'She went up to the throne room, I think. Said something about looking for a cure — ow! That hurt!'

'Sorry,' Aragorn muttered, pressing the oil into her wound. 'How long have you been here?'

Tilda looked around.

'In the city, or on my own?' she asked.

'On your own,' Aragorn snapped.

Tilda shrugged.

'I don't know — a while. I'd go and look for Tirith but…'

She indicated to her broken leg.

'Do you know what cure she was talking about?' Aragorn asked.

Tilda shrugged.

'I guess it's for the Silver Silence, but why in the name of the Valar she thought she'd find something here, I will never know,' she surveyed the ruined room. 'Just look at this place, it looks like a Troll had a tea-party in here — and what's with all the statues? They're creepy as fuck! Ow! Aragorn, if you are trying to kill me, could you at least do it nicely!'

'Nicely is not a good word,' Aragorn muttered, ignoring Tilda's complaints.

The girl huffed, and rolled her eyes.

'Oh, look at me,' she mocked, good hand twitching. 'I'm Aragorn Elessar and I know that I'm better then everyone because I don't use the word "nicely".'

'Don't say that name,' Aragorn warned, pausing to glare at his cousin. 'You do not know who's listening.'

Tilda snorted.

'Please, Aragorn, there's no one here! I think I would have noticed if there was a spy.'

Aragorn sighed, and leaned back on his heels.

'Do you think you can wait until I come back with Tirith?' he asked.

The girl smiled.

'I may be the daughter of a King, Aragorn, but I will forever be a citizen Lake-town,' her grin widened as Aragorn's brows furrowed. 'That means, I know pretty well how to hold a knife,'

'Good,' Aragorn muttered, pulling out a few of his own arrows and handing them to Tilda. 'But just in case.'

Tilda rolled her eyes, but incepted the weapons.

'Their crap!' she called as Aragorn walked away. 'You really should yet someone to look at them!'

'Their elf-made!' Aragorn hollered back.

Tirith snorted.

'Their still crap!'

It took Aragorn over an hour to find the Throne Room, that by the time he hand reached the hall, it had grown dark. Unlike the rest of the building, the Throne Room of King Elendil and his sons, was surprisingly clean. Golden murals, depicting Númenor's fall, cling to the walls, the faint image of nine ships casting over the water imprinted deeply in the metal. A few thread of what Aragorn hopes to be a rug, lined the ground, and on either side of him, two enormous statures flooded the entrance.

They were beautiful, with a rather, otherworldly feel to them. The one who stood on the right, was a woman, her curly hair falling to her feet. She sat below a large throne, her eyes downcast and sullen, her gaze catching Aragon's head like an arrow tip. Her head was resting on the palm of her right hand, her fingers glinting with rings and spindly bracelets. A thick veil fell across her head, the flowing fabric bound by a thin cord of rope and her clothes were thin, and shabby. She looked eerily familiar, as if Aragorn was staring at someone he hand known all his life. However, it was the crown that sat a her feet, the polished stones gleaming in the cold light, that really made Aragorn stare. Why wasn't she wearing it?

The other stature, the one on the left, was a man, with a pair of grim eyes and thin lips. He was tall, with a strange kingly presence, that radiated around the room and his hair fell to his lower back, and the same crown that the other stature had, was sitting on his head. His face was stern, but friendly, with a strange magnificence hidden behind an ancient face that told Aragorn that the man had a great love of mischief. But it was the humongous sword that rested tightly in his grip, and the fact that he was dressed in the robes and fine fabrics of the Elves, which caused Aragorn to wonder if the man, was human.

'He is Elros Tar-Minyatur, the First King of Númenor,' a voice whispered, and Aragorn looked up, to see Tirith kneeling at the altar, head pressed low to the two white thrones that loomed above her. 'She is Tar-Míriel, the last.'

Aragorn frowned. Something wasn't right. Tirith never knelt in front of any throne, let along the ones of her people who had banished her. In the cold light, he thought he saw another stature, like the ones outside, and before he could really stop himself, he moved towards it.

'Where have you been?' Aragorn whispered, gently approaching his guard, who still had her head pressed to the floor, half covering the fallen stature, so that he only saw what he hoped, was a pair of children's stone feet. 'Tilda, the rest of Taurdal and I have been worried sick,'

Tirith shrugged, pulling her hood further around her face.

'I'm looking for a cure,' she whispered, arms moving to cover the fallen statue, voice suddenly heavy.

'By burying your face in your arms and crying?' Aragorn snapped, eyes suddenly rising with anger. 'Tilda is wounded, Tirith! She could have died.'

'She would have been fine, Aragorn,' Tirith muttered, ignoring his anger. 'She's been trained to deal with this. Someone would have come for her eventually.'

'Has she?' Aragorn asked. 'She's my family, Tirith! A descendent of Isildur! Don't you even care?'

Tirith paused.

'I was looking for a cure,' she said again.

'We have cures,' Aragorn muttered, pressing his hand to his forehead. 'From Lord Elrond,'

'They won't last - I've all ready tried one.'

'What do you mean you've all ready tried one?' Aragorn asked, brows furrowed.

Tirith sighed, and after a moments hesitation, raised her head, and turned to face him. She pulled her hood off her head, revealing her pale face and the horrible true that decorated her pale skin. Aragorn's heart stopped as he took in the silvery veins and sunken eyes of his guard.

'Tirith…' he gasped, mouth open. 'What?'

'Surprise,' the guard whispered, a thin smile on her lips. 'Turns out, that having a daughter, about two thousand years ago, really does come back to haunt you.'

She turned back to the stature, eyes filled with hidden tears. Now that she had pulled away, Aragorn could blatantly see that the statue hadn't fallen, but was carved into the image of a young girl, who was lying on the ground. Long hair framed a childish fearful face, her large eyes wide with unimaginable horror, as her right arm clutched a bleeding side. Her left was thrust outwards, extending to an unknown person, and as Aragorn sat next to Tirith, heart heavy, he suddenly noticed that the child's hair was far to messy, for a sculpture ever to have carved.

'Aragorn,' Tirith whispered, stroking the child's cheek with a silvery, shaking hand. 'I would like you to meet my daughter. Míriel Elentir… She was named after my parents… The Last Queen of Númenor, and the Faithful's Original Leader.'

* * *

 **TA 3008**

Dawn was beginning to rise when Aragorn, Pippin, Merry, Sam, Tirith and Tauriel finally reached Rivendell. The home of Lord Elrond glinted across the sky like a warm hug, it's warm architecture and curving archways, casting an easy and safe spell across the six weary travellers, that as they stepped across the bridge, and into the small courtyard, Aragorn was pleased to be met with an old friend.

'Greetings, Estel,' the Elf said, bowing his head as he approached the group. 'I see you have safety brought the Hobbits,'

His gaze landed on Tirith, and his mouth turned up a little.

'However, your wife looks a little worse for wear,'

'Fuck off, Lindir,' Tirith grumbled, eyes narrowing as she fixed her gaze on the Elf. 'Don't you have someone else to piss off. You'd look like this if you fell of the top of Isengard,'

'But you didn't fall, did you Tirith,' Tauriel muttered, pulling the woman's arm around her shoulder. 'You jumped — you jumped!'

Tirith shrugged.

'Same difference,'

Tauriel fixed her a deadly stare, and turned to Lindir.

'Are there any beds left?' she asked, elbowing Tirith in the gut when the woman began to protest. 'I really need to drop her off.'

Lindir paused.

'Her rooms are ready — as they have always been. I'll send someone to be your guide.'

'No need,' Tirith groaned, leaning heavily on Tauriel. 'I'll do it. I've been here longer than you have. I know the fucking way! I don't tell me I need guide!'

With that, she stumbled away, Tauriel following closely behind. It took a while before Aragorn relaxed, his brow furrowing even deeper as Lindir turned to look at him.

'She'll be find — Lord Elrond will look after her.'

Aragorn sighed, resting a hand on the hilt of his sword.

'I know,' he shook his head. 'Anyway, I think its best we look after these hobbits, perhaps show them to their quarters'

He indicated to Merry, Sam and Pippin who's faces brightened at the mention of their rooms, and before Lindir had fully agreed, the three hobbits rushed off, leaving the Elf to follow after them. Aragorn closed his eyes and began the long walk back to his rooms.

It had been almost a hundred years since he had arrived in Rivendell, since his mother had fled the North and gained refuge in the white palace, and while Aragorn would be forever grateful, he sometimes wondered what would have happened if she hadn't. While it was true that Rivendell was beautiful, Tirith had often said that something was missing, a presence that had long since left. Having never met Lady Celebrían, Aragorn assumed this was the presence that Tirith was talin about, but as he walked down the warmly lit corridors, he wondered what the home would have looked in the years gone by, at a time when peace ruled.

It was then that he saw the Elf. Somehow, Aragorn had taken a wrong turn, and instead of ending up in his quarters like he had originally planned, he had ended up in the same library he had met Tirith all those years before. The room had hardly changed, the womanly statue that guarded Narsil stared grimly across the room, and it was as Aragorn was about to leave, that he noticed the Elf.

It was a little jarring to see the Elf staring at the mural with such a look of hatred, that Aragorn couldn't help but assume that he had to have fought at the Siege of Barad-dûr to gain such a look. His hair was the colour of wine, the red-copper locks pulled loosely into a long braid that ran down his back, and in his grip, his blade glittered darkly. He wore a strange assortment of clothing, fine, but also old, as if they had worn him, rather then the other way around. But it was the mural, and the red haired woman who stood in it, that had caught the Elf's attention.

Aragorn paused. He had always assumed the woman in the painting was Tirith, for she looked an awfully lot like the guard. The woman was dressed in black armour, swords abandoned at her side as she knelt over a dark haired man. She was easy to pick out, as her hair fell like flame against Mordor's battlefields, and as she lay over a man, her arms wrapped tightly around his body, Aragorn suddenly realised that she as hugging the corpse of his ancestor, High-King Elendil.

'Tirith,' Aragorn breathed, stepping forward to the mural as in a trance.

The Elf tensed, turning his icy gaze on the Dúnedain. For a brief second, a pair of familiar looking gold rimmed green eyes stared back, before the Elf turned away, jaw set.

'Greetings, Aragorn Arathornion,' the Elf stated, 'I have wanted a long time to meet you. However I must tell you, that she is not Tirith — or at least not the Tirith that you know.'

Having long since excepted that he took after his father in more then just looks, Aragorn wasn't that surprised to hear the name coming from the Elf's lips; what did surprise him, however, was the knowledge that his elf wanted to meet him. It didn't sit well in his gut, and as Aragorn turned to look at the mural, he began to understand what the Elf meant.

The woman did not have Tirith's scarred face, nor the insignia tattoo that graced her neck, and while the similarity between the two was absolutely terrifying, Aragorn suddenly realised that the two were completely different. The Elf smirked as Aragorn took a step back.

'You assume your wife to be Naurmaed Eltíriaiel,' the man said, turning back to the painting. 'In a way, you are right, they share the same bloodline, as they are children of Elros after all, however, she has long since passed, her ties to this earth gone and broken beyond repair.'

Aragorn's eyes narrowed. He had never heard of a Naurmaed before.

'Who was Naurmaed Eltíriaiel, then?' Aragorn asked.

The Elf smiled, and shook his head.

'When I met her, she was a young girl, swayed by the desires and cruelness of her King,' the Elf sighed. 'Although I will admit, I never suspected that the niece and adopted-daughter of the Lord of Ondosto was still alive. I assumed she died with her family at Barad-dûr — along with Naurmaed and her family.'

The Elf licked his lips, suddenly thinking.

'You said your wife's name was Tirith,' he said, turning to look at Aragorn, eyebrows raised. 'That is an uninteresting title for a woman.'

'It's a taken name,' Aragon replied automatically. 'Her really name is hidden.'

The Elf cocked his head.

'Do you know her true name?' he breathed.

Aragorn shook his head. The Elf smiled.

'Your wife has an interesting choice in names,' he continued, tapping the painting with a long nail. 'That title was sacred in Númenor, a decision which was taken up by the ones chosen to guard the crown prince or princess. When I was around, Naurmaed was the first guard of Isildur — although back then others called her by her quenya name, as a sort of ease into sindarin life: Tiriste.'

He paused watching Aragorn with a withered look.

'I suspect your wife never told you that,' he said, grinning. 'That the first guard of Isildur died by his side, and the second took up her place.'

'Tháron,' a voice snapped, and Aragorn turned to find his foster father glaring at the Elf.

For a short while the two seemed to glare at each other, before Elrond gathered his strength and gave the Elf a sort smile.

'You'd be happy to know that your daughter has returned,' he informed Tháron, who raised his eyebrow. 'Tauriel is in her rooms if you'd like to finally meet her, or are you going to pretend that she doesn't exist?'

There was something in Elrond's voice, that told Aragorn that his was a familiar topic of conversation, and while the heir of Isildur had no idea why Tháron refused to see his daughter the, he could understand Elrond's urgency for the two to meet.

Tháron's lips curled, face grim, and he turned away, shaking his head.

'No,' he breathed. 'No, cousin, not tonight — not ever,'

Elrond sighed as Tháron turned to Aragorn, bowing his head.

 _'_ _Farewell, Elessar,'_ he breathed, a cold look on his proud features. _'Until we meet again.'_

It wasn't until Tháron had left, that Elrond stepped forward.

'I've been asked if you would like to attend Council?' Elrond asked, lips grim. 'As a representative of the Dúnedain?'

Aragorn raised his head, heart suddenly heavy. Was it really worth it? Was it a task that he could undertake — to sit in a meeting that he had watched nearly all his life, and pretend that he wasn't important. Turning, the heir of Isildur looked to back at the mural, eyes tracing the terrified features of Naurmaed. Loosely, her name meant Pretty Fire, a term which certainly drove home. What it worth it, to take a risk? Did he want to end up like her, lost, along and afraid, fearful for her own life as her king lay dying. Did he want to?

Sighing, Aragorn turned to Elrond, and after a long pause, nodded.

'Yes,' he breathed. 'I will — we both will.'

He never noticed the thin smile that rose to Elrond's lips as he walked away, nor the grim look when he looked at Naurmaed's painting.

Perhaps some stories were better left untold.

* * *

 **Dear All,**

 **So right — my almost year long absents probably should be addressed…. I was busy, life got in the way, and there's my excuse. Also, I couldn't for the life of me figure out what the hell to write. I was staring at my screen for ages, just watching the white page, wondering what to do.**

 **Thank god, two reviewers, (ColdOnePaul and Lady Jamboreemon) kicked me back into action. So, thank you so very much, you lovely, lovely people! Tusen Takk! (That's Norsk for thanks… or the literal translation is "a thousand thanks". It's not really used much and is used a really, really, really important way of saying thanks.) Also ignore the hesitant, "I'm stopping this story crap". I was exhausted, and my mind goes a little loopy when exhausted.**

 **For those of you who can read/understand Sindarin or Quenya, please note that it took me a very long time to make up the name, Naurmaed. From what I could gather it means Pretty-Fire, in Sindarin, but please take that finding with a pinch of salt. I hope it's somewhat similar though.**

 **You will all get a new chapter very soon as I've started up my timetable. This chapter will be updated next on the 24th of June. If you wish to know why, head to my profile page, and look under the heading "Timetable" and you will see all the work I have to do. Now I just have to remember what I was going to write. Wish me luck!**

 **from,**

 **Lily**


	5. Dear All

Dear All,

I'm so sorry, but I'm afraid there isn't going to be a chapter today. I'm unfortunately not very well, so I can't do it, however I should be fine by tommorow. This story will be updated on Wednesday the 20th. Sorry, and I hope you can understand.

from

Lily


End file.
